


Hookerino: The Clark/Bruce Opus

by tmelange



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: First Time Sex/Romance, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, slice-of-life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 72,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <img/>
</p>
<p>Superman is tasked with making the Dark Knight of Gotham more pleasant and must call out all the stops. With some help from Alfred, Superman whisks Batman away to Lake Tahoe and...convinces him to stay for two weeks. Sex and shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Set-Up: This Is A Job for Superman!

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as a special sort of exercise. It is not a contained story in the usual sense. I used this as writing practice, completing a chapter a day from alternating perspectives. Hence, there isn't a real tight story arc. Instead, it's an almost minute-by-minute tracking of 14 days in the life of Bruce and Clark. It probably qualifies best as a slice-of-life, though lots of stuff happens.

**The Set-Up: This Is A Job for Superman!**

**Hooker:** Sometimes called a hookerino. It is a common misconception that a hooker is a prostitute or a woman who sells her body. In fact, a hooker is simply a garden gnome that resides in Kansas, and then in winter moves to Lake Tahoe.

— _The Urban Dictionary_

1—

Scathingly, Batman explained to his teammates the exact deficiencies in their performance on their last mission in painstaking detail, using clips, charts, diagrams, freeze shots and quotes. He was careful to speak slowly and to keep his sentences short so even the most mentally challenged hero sitting around the conference room table could understand.

_"Flash."_

"W-what?!"

"Are. You. Paying. _Attention?"_

"Of course! Bats…come on…would I ignore _you?_ I hang on your every word. I throw flowers at your feet. I—"

"Shut. Up."

"Shutting up."

"You rely on your powers to the detriment of your _brain,"_ Batman continued from his position standing at the head of the table, pointing to Flash in particular. "Then, when someone manages to counteract your powers, you're all left scrambling, engaging in damage control. If I conducted myself the way _you_ do, I'd be _dead_ a hundred times over!"

"Batman," J'onn interjected in an even tone of voice, one meant to placate, "I do not think you are being fair—"

"Fair?" Batman's voice dropped an octave, and a hand clenched at his side. _"Fair?_ You expect our opponents to treat us fairly? If we're not perfectly coordinated, if we're not _all_ at the top of our game, innocent people will _die."_ It seemed the Bat was glaring at them all, though who could really tell through the eerie whites of his mask's eye sockets? "I don't see what _fairness_ has to do with our current tactical problems."

Green Lantern lifted his head from his intense contemplation of a mutilated paperclip. "Batman's right," he stated. "I've said it time and time again, we need to practice more often. Work on functioning as a team. Figure out the best ways our powers can work together, instead of running over each other roughshod—"

_"Lantern."_

The low growl in the back of Batman's throat as he spoke the word 'Lantern' caused John to come to an abrupt halt.

"You should be the _last_ person talking about teamwork. Your bumbling attempts to save your old military buddy almost got The Flash killed."

"But—"

"You have a ring on your finger that can split atoms. _What did you think you were doing?"_

"I—"

John hung his head, dejected and embarrassed. "It all worked out in the end," he said in a small voice. "We won...."

"If all you're concerned about is _winning,"_ Batman said icily, "you can do so without me." The Dark Knight deposited his clipboard and communicator on the table with rather more force than was necessary and stalked out of the room.

For many minutes, silence reigned.

"Batman seems to be wound a bit tight these days...." Shayera offered hesitantly.

"Someone needs to talk to him," J'onn added quietly. "I have already tried."

Shayera looked around the conference room table speculatively. Her eyes came to rest on Green Lantern.

"John?"

"Uh-uh. Not me."

"Wally?"

_"Not me!"_

"Diana?"

"I might have to kill him," the princess said, with an elegant arch to an eyebrow and a tone of voice that said she wasn't exactly adverse to the idea, "just to get him to listen."

They were all quiet for a moment, until The Flash jumped up, slapped a hand on the table and announced:

"This is a job for Superman!"

Of _course._ If anyone could tame an unruly Bat, it was _Superman._ The entire room let out a collective sigh of relief. J'onn rose to his feet and headed for the nearest computer console.

"I will make the call."

 

2—

J'onn sashayed into the Thai restaurant on Sixth Avenue that was Clark Kent's favorite lunchtime haunt, ignoring the appreciative stares from the men in suits lining the bar. He found it incredibly ironic that a mere adjustment in his outward appearance could engender such a drastic difference in the way he was received by humans. He had always believed that the inner spirit transcended appearances and should be the true measure of a person's worth. Perhaps his perspective was unusual given human mental and physical limitations, but J'onn couldn't help but wonder what his existence would have been like amongst his peers if he had based his initial appearance on what would have made Superman more comfortable rather than Batman because the Dark Knight was the one who was more openly hostile. It was likely that his entire experience on this planet known as Earth would have been drastically different.

He noticed Clark sitting at his usual table and headed in his direction.

"Clark, it's wonderful to see you again," he said as his fellow Justice Leaguer got to his feet and leaned down to give him a quick peck on the cheek. Mischievously, J'onn turned his head at the last moment to ensure that Clark's obligatory kiss of greeting was rather more than the Man of Steel had intended. J'onn chuckled as Clark's face flushed a vivid red. After all, what good was it being an incredibly attractive female if a girl was too shy to steal a kiss from Superman?

They sat down. Clark settled his napkin on his lap. "To what do I own the pleasure of your company?" he asked. "Anything wrong?"

J'onn took a moment to place his order with the waiter who was hovering nearby before responding. "We're having problems with a certain mutual acquaintance."

Clark raised an eyebrow.

"A certain resident of Gotham—"

"I see," Clark said with a sigh. "What's he done now?"

"It's not something he's done exactly," J'onn explained. "It's something he's _doing._ He seems to be rather more…short-tempered than usual."

Clark grinned ruefully. "Unusually short-tempered. Imagine that."

"I wouldn't have bothered you with this, but it is my estimation that his disposition is affecting the morale of our mutual friends."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

Clark was silent for a moment, as if hesitating to commit himself to any particular course of action. "I guess it must be pretty bad for you to come to me, but I'm not sure what I can do about it. He doesn't exactly appreciate my interference in his life."

"Despite any appearance to the contrary," J'onn assured him, "you remain the only one whom he considers a friend."

"He said that?"

"Not in so many words."

"Right." He sighed. "Can't Diana—?"

"No. She says when she looks at him she sees dead people." J'onn smiled.

"Oh. And you—?"

"I tried. He wouldn't listen."

"He doesn't exactly listen to me either," Clark grumbled. "I don't know why I'm always the one people come to when they're having problems with him. He's a big boy, and although we _are_ friends, of a sort, I'm actually the last person he wants telling him what to do. If I try to bring this up it's likely to get…messy, and I don't really have time right now to fight with him."

J'onn shrugged. "So don't talk. Don't fight. Find some other way to fix him."

"He needs… _fixing?"_

J'onn nodded. "Exactly."

"Oh. Well." Clark sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

"I'm sorry about this, Clark," J'onn said regretfully. "I know you wanted some time away from active duty to concentrate on your job."

"It's okay, but I have a conference in Tahoe in a couple of days that I can't miss. I'll see what I can do before I leave."

"That's all we can ask."

 

3—

Superman hovered over the Gotham Botanical Gardens and searched the crowd for Bruce Wayne. Finding his friend took only seconds. He stood head and shoulders above the rest of the men in the gathering, figuratively and literally, even when shrouded in his insipid _Brucie_ persona. Of course, he had a lovely brunette on his arm and was blithely steering her towards a gazebo that was out of the way of the main gathering. Clark shook his head. Typical Bruce, seeking to position himself so he would be out of the limelight while everyone assumed he wanted some private time with his date. Clark floated closer.

As Bruce charmed and flattered and laughed at everything funny his date had to say, Clark studied the man. He noticed that although Bruce was putting on a good show, tension had caused little lines to appear at the corners of his eyes. His heartbeat was elevated, and his blood pressure was high. A person would have to know him very well indeed to ascertain the way his _Brucie_ facade seemed to be straining the edges of his skin, tingeing his responses with just the slightest bit of annoyance. Clark knew him very well, well enough to be concerned.

He noticed other things, too, things that were obviously not as important but equally interesting. It wasn't often Clark got to study Batman out of costume. There wasn't another man at the event who could rival the way Bruce looked in his tuxedo, the grace of his every movement, the way his sharp blue eyes reflected the starlight. Clark certainly could understand the young lady's attraction, and when Bruce took her in his arms and kissed her and her heartbeat thundered in a fierce, staccato rhythm, Clark could appreciate the rush, the rapid rise and fall. He could almost feel it himself.

Clark watched as Bruce de-tangled himself from his date, seemingly disinclined to continue their amorous embrace. It was no wonder. Clark could tell Bruce was hardly excited, at least not in the way that any other man who had such a beautiful woman in his arms would be. He tucked an ebony lock of hair behind her ear affectionately, but it was only an act. He shepherded her in front of him down the gazebo stairs and back towards the main gathering.

Satisfied with his investigation and resolved to approach Bruce later in the evening to attempt to talk to him about his troubles, Superman started a gentle withdrawal on the currents that would eventually float him up into the atmosphere where he would take a direct route to the Batcave to wait. With a last glance at his teammate, he noticed Bruce had fallen a little behind his date on the path through the garden. It was the wind that brought Bruce's sub-vocalization to his ears, loud as a bell and pitched for him alone.

"Clark, I'm going to kick your ass all the way back to Metropolis if you don't stop _watching_ me, goddammit."

_Okay,_ Clark sighed as he set a trajectory that would take him back to his city. _Talking. Bad idea._ He would have to do this the hard way.

 

4—

The tomato plants required fertilizing, Alfred decided, as he rose from a kneeling position in his vegetable garden outside the kitchen window of Wayne Manor. Many people failed to realize you needed to feed the earth properly in order for the earth to reciprocate. Nature was very logical, and the constant gardener was well aware you reap what you sow in every way. Alfred Pennyworth was the most constant of gardeners.

"Alfred, you have a Clark Kent at the front door. He's asking for you."

Alfred showed no surprise at Meredith's announcement. She was still young, and Alfred felt his responsibility to impart proper decorum at all times for her benefit most keenly. Equanimity must be maintained. Nothing should surprise the service staff at Wayne Manor, not even an unexpected visit by Superman.

"Please, bring him around," Alfred said, "and then prepare a tray of milk and apple pie slices with cream. Note they are Mister Kent's favorites."

Meredith nodded, and then scurried away to follow instructions. Alfred smiled at the girl's taciturnity. She would make a fine addition to the permanent household staff. Master Bruce would undoubtedly approve of her propensity to act rather than talk. He brushed the dirt from his pant legs and stowed his gloves and equipment, waiting patiently for Clark to appear.

"Hi, Alfred," Clark said as he maneuvered his large frame through the relatively small kitchen doorway at the rear of the manor. He held out a hand in greeting and smiled down at him warmly.

Not for the first time, Alfred merely raised an eyebrow at the strange contradiction presented by Bruce's oldest and best friend of the superhero persuasion. Once it became known to the rational mind that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person, the first reaction was to ask yourself how you were ever fooled into believing otherwise. Sunlight seemed to surround Clark Kent like a nimbus, and no prop, no amount of hunching over, or any pretense to a bumbling nature could ever really mask that glow. Having spent time in the theater, Alfred could appreciate the work of a master performer who, by strength of willpower alone, could distort the edges of reality. Certainly, Master Clark was the perfect complement to Bruce, matched his charge in every way. Alfred only wished Bruce would do more to ensure Clark was a regular fixture in his life.

"Mister Kent. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Are you looking for Master Bruce?"

"Uh, no, Alfred. Actually, I'm here to see you, if you're not too busy."

"It would be my pleasure, sir. Today is actually my day off, so time I have aplenty."

"And Bruce, he's not—?"

"Master Bruce has a business meeting this afternoon. We don't expect him back until this evening."

Alfred noted with amusement the small exhalation that seemed to relieve Clark's tension at that bit of information.

"Great…not that I don't want to see Bruce but—"

"I understand perfectly, sir. If you would follow me."

Alfred led his unexpected visitor to the poolside patio, and they both took their seats at one of the elegant little stone tables that dotted the perimeter. They didn't bother to put up the umbrella since the sun was bright but not hot. Meredith materialized with the refreshments that Alfred had ordered prepared, and the delighted smile on Clark's face was enough to make the girl stumble shyly, almost spilling the milk. Alfred made a note to speak to her about that later.

"What can I do for you?"

"It's Bruce." Clark paused, seemingly trying to decide how best to explain his dilemma. "I… _we…"_ he stopped again. "Well, what's _wrong_ with him?"

"Do you mean generally or specifically, sir?"

"Specifically, I guess. He seems to be out of sorts lately. His temper is extremely short. He's edgy-- edgier--and nothing anyone does is good enough anymore. He's driving everyone crazy…more than usual, I mean." Clark started tapping his fingers on the table, drumming a complicated rhythm into the stone that was almost mesmerizing. Apparently, it was a nervous reaction, Alfred noted. He would have to add it to the file later.

"Have you tried talking to him?" he asked. He had made it a policy long ago that before he ever interfered in Bruce's personal or professional life, he would allow his charge the opportunity to fix his own messes. Only when it seemed he was unwilling or unable to do so did Alfred feel warranted in taking appropriate countermeasures.

"No," Clark answered slowly, "that's always what I try to do first. It rarely works. For some reason, Bruce treats my every overture as a personal challenge. He hears me, but he rarely listens. Even if I can get him to understand my position, it takes weeks, even months for him to make any adjustments in his behavior at all. Even then, it's only begrudgingly, and he never admits that he might be _wrong."_

"It's because he loves you."

The drumming on the table stopped abruptly. "What?"

"You wanted to know the reason he keeps you at a distance, rarely listens, treats your every attempt at familiarity as a personal challenge. It's because he loves you. He worries that caring for you too overtly will endanger you, or himself, or the effective progression of his mission. Hence, he challenges himself to keep his most important relationships in perspective. It's a great failing on his part, but it stems from love. He treats Master Dick the same way."

"Oh."

Clark was staring at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads. If Alfred hadn't been aware that the young man was actually quite bright, he would have been very worried for the future of the world.

"I didn't answer your original question," he continued, since it seemed Clark was still at a loss for words. "If I were to guess at what has been bothering Master Bruce lately," Alfred said, speculatively, "I would say it was the impending approach of his birthday."

"His birthday?"

"Quite so. On Thursday, Master Bruce will turn thirty."

"Could it be that simple?" Clark wondered out loud, and the drumming started again, fingers to stone, however it was a new rhythm, Alfred noted. Perhaps he had better research the melodies and append the information to the files also. Master Bruce was nothing if not thorough.

"It happens to the best of us," Alfred agreed, "though in Master Bruce's case I suspect it's less the vanity of the situation and more a function of how his own mortality will affect the ultimate success or failure of his mission, whether he will live to see the end of it, whether what he's doing ever has or ever will make a real difference in Gotham. Whether or not the sacrifices he's made—and he's made plenty—will seem worth it when he can no longer put on cape and cowl." Alfred quieted, a tacit moment of respect for the inexorable and the bitter knowledge that there would undoubtedly come a day when Batman could no longer protect his city.

"I never thought—"

"Undoubtedly, sir," Alfred agreed, very familiar with the file on Superman and the fact that he'd likely live, if not forever, then for such a long time as to make a comparison meaningless. Hadn't he already risen from the dead _once?_ "Such things would likely never occur to _you._ But Master Bruce is only human."

Alfred paused at the deep frown on Clark's face that was like a solar eclipse. He didn't want to hurt the man whom Alfred privately thought was Bruce's best chance for any happiness in this life, but he wanted the man to _understand._ So few people took the time to really understand Bruce Wayne. Very few people had the benefit of full disclosure.

"It's very hard for him to know that his best friends—you, Diana—will go on while he must suffer a mortal fate. He has too few years at the peak of his physical prowess. He can see the day that he'd no longer feel _worthy_ to stand at your side. It weighs on him heavily."

Clark took a sip of his milk as if he needed something solid to reestablish his equilibrium after being forced to face a bitter truth. His plate of pie sat untouched. Alfred regretted that state of affairs keenly, but there was no help for it. Some things needed to be said.

"I want to do something," Clark said, as he set the glass down and determination settled over his features. "I want to spend some time with him. I want him to understand that he could never be _unworthy._ I've never met anyone _more_ worthy in my entire life, and I know I never will." He leaned in closer. "I originally thought he needed a vacation and wanted your help in arranging it. I still think it would be a good idea."

"I agree," Alfred said.

"The only problem is he'd never agree to go."

"Very true."

"And even if I forced him to go, kicking and screaming, I could never convince him to stay."

"I…wouldn't be too sure of that, sir."

"You could see Bruce wanting to spend two weeks at Lake Tahoe?" Clark was clearly dubious. "I have to go there for a conference."

"Not exactly, but the right incentive would go a long way in bearding the bat on his own terms, so to speak."

Privately, Alfred knew it wouldn't take as much as Clark might think to get Bruce to agree to spend some quality time alone with the Man of Steel, away from their costumed identities. Of course, Bruce would never make it _easy,_ but the right _pretense_ would assuage his pride. Once over the initial hurdle, Clark would likely be surprised at exactly _where_ Bruce might want to take their relationship. At least, Alfred hoped his employer would be smart enough to seize the opportunity appropriately. He wasn't worried about Clark's reaction to any romantic overture by his charge; any modestly perceptive person could see that Clark worshiped the ground Bruce walked on, that the distance he maintained from Bruce was a protective mechanism put in place to combat Bruce's abrasiveness. It would only take the slightest of encouragements for Clark to realize from whence such deep feelings originated.

The drumming had started again. "Incentive," Clark repeated. "I think I can provide that. I know the perfect thing to offer him. It's so unique his curiosity would force him to stay, if I know Bruce at all. I'll insist on two weeks in payment." Clark nodded his head decisively. "The only thing left is to ensure there are no problems with his company or with Gotham while he's gone."

"I can make the appropriate arrangements, sir."

Clark picked up his fork and dove into the pie with a happy vengeance. "Now, all I have to do is get him to Tahoe without him making a big scene," he said around mouthfuls.

"You can leave that to me. I have the perfect solution."


	2. Day One: Two Weeks?!

**Day One: _Two Weeks?!_**

5—

Regretfully, Bruce pulled himself away from a cerulean-edged dream that warmed his soul and wrapped him in clouds that comforted him, a dream of wind that whispered in his ear that he was safe, loved—finally, _loved_ —protected, that everything was as it should be....

Sunlight tickled his face, bothering him. _Why had Alfred opened the curtains so early?_ he wondered languidly, with a heaviness of limbs and a deep desire to fall back into his dreams, and that was . . . unusual. He opened his eyes . . . and was confused.

_What?_

He was in a bed that was not his own, a bed of too many pillows. Hurriedly, he sat up. Pulled the covers back. Realized he was naked, under the covers. Yanked the covers back up to his chest.

_What the—?_

He scanned his surroundings to get his bearings, find a weapon. He was alone, in a hotel room. He was alone. He noticed a robe that was thrown over a chair by the bed. Cautiously, with every sense on alert, he got out of the bed and put on the robe. He crept over to the window.

There were mountains, snow-capped, towering, obscuring line of sight in all directions. Bruce backed away from the window and walked slowly to the bedroom door and out into the main area of a large and well-appointed hotel suite. He approached the door, opened it—it opened with no problem—and surveyed the hallway. Empty. He closed the door, locked it. There was another door to be investigated. It was slightly ajar and looked like it led to an adjoining suite. Bruce headed in that direction.

He heard singing as he entered the room that mirrored his own. He recognized the voice. The sound was coming from what could only be a bathroom. As he approached the open door that leaked steam with steps that had turned from tentative to aggressive, he heard the sound of water impacting flesh.

He pushed the door open and entered.

_"Clark."_

Clark Kent dropped the soap, clearly startled. The glass enclosure of the shower stall provided no opportunity for modesty, and to his credit, Clark didn't even try for any. He just stood there, naked and wet, glaring at Bruce as if _Bruce_ were the one in the wrong.

"Geez, Bruce, I'm _showering._ Some privacy, please?"

He watched as Clark bent down and picked up the soap, and carefully placed the soap in its tray. Then he grabbed a bottle of shampoo with a little more force than was necessary before stopping and again glaring at Bruce through the glass.

"Are you going to stand there, _staring?"_ he asked. "There will be time enough to kill me later. I'm not going anywhere. Feel free to, you know, _wait outside in the room."_

With a dark glower that said that explanations had better be forthcoming, Bruce stomped out of the bathroom, through what was obviously Clark's suite and into his own. Somewhere along the way, he had lost control of his breathing. As he paused to slow his pulse he noticed a tray of coffee on the dining table. There was a note. It was from Alfred.

 _Master Bruce,_ it said. _Please call the manor at your earliest convenience. Alfred._

Bruce walked over to the phone and started dialing. After three rings, Alfred answered in a perfectly modulated voice.

"Good morning. Wayne residence."

"Alfred."

"Ah, Master Bruce. So good of you to call."

_"Alfred…"_

"Yes, well, I'm sure you're wondering what's going on, and I wanted to assure you, sir, that I have everything well in hand."

"Everything like _what?"_ Bruce growled.

"I've made all the arrangements for your vacation."

"Vacation. _Vacation?_ Who decided that I needed a vacation, _and how did I get here?"_

"I did, sir. I thought it was in your best interest for you to take a break."

He and Alfred had a unique relationship that was based on friendship and mutual respect—but most of all, love. To the casual observer, Alfred seemed the model of a family servant, but anyone who knew anything about Bruce Wayne knew that Alfred took pride in his duties, not because he was, in fact, only the Wayne family butler, but because he was so much _more_ that his sense of propriety insisted that appearances must be maintained. So while Alfred played the part of servant, Bruce knew full well that when he made a decision about Bruce's welfare, it had the weight of a pronouncement by a man who had been standing in the stead of his father, quietly but unreservedly, for the majority of his life. Hence, there was no way to question _what_ Alfred had chosen to do for his own good; his only option was to get the man to change his mind.

"Explain."

"Mister Kent brought it to my attention that your _friends_ feel that you've been under a lot of stress lately, and that your good manners have suffered because of it. I checked the family journal and realized that you hadn't had a vacation in ages, sir. I thought Mister Kent's upcoming business trip would be an outstanding opportunity for you to spend some quality time relaxing with a friend. Mister Kent was kind enough to agree."

"Mister Kent." Bruce took a deep, steadying breath. "How did I get here?"

"Mister Kent assured me that you would not go with him without a fight, and, sadly, I did agree. To make it easier on all concerned, I replaced your usual nightly restorative with a sleeping draught."

"You drugged me."

"In a manner of speaking."

"You know I hate drugs."

"Melodramatics are _hardly_ necessary, sir."

"And then what?"

"And then Mister Kent was kind enough to impose upon his friend Superman to fly you to the appropriate destination."

Bruce pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in amazement. Alfred was not beyond doing any outrageous thing if he thought it was in his best interest, _but this—_

"Alfred, I can't believe you expect me to stay here. _With Clark._ On vacation. Have you lost your mind?"

"I'll thank you _not_ to cast aspersions, sir. Desperate times call for desperate measures. It is my judgment that we are in the most _desperate_ of times."

"I'm _not_ staying here," Bruce said, and if his voice was somewhat petulant, he clamped down on it almost immediately.

"You _will_ remain on vacation, sir, and you _will_ have a good time."

"I will _not._ I'm taking the next flight home."

"That will be somewhat difficult, sir, without your wallet."

If Bruce didn't know better, he'd have thought that Alfred's voice had just a smidgen of smug running through it.

He continued, "You have no identification, no cash, I canceled all of your credit cards, sir, and changed the access codes to all of your bank accounts. I have spoken to Mister Fox, and all professional associates have been instructed not to take your calls. I've even contacted those acquaintances who are friendly with Bruce Wayne and who you might consider contacting for help." Alfred paused. "Now, sir, I'm sure that _you_ could find your way back to Gotham, despite my best efforts, however, I've changed the codes on the security system to the cave, and secured the residence against your premature arrival. I'm sure even _that_ wouldn't stop you should you decide otherwise, however, know that if you refuse to see reason on this issue, I will refuse to remain in this house to watch you self-destruct."

Stunned silence reigned for a moment, two, until movement caught the corner of his eye and he turned to see Clark enter his room gingerly, with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Blinking, he realized that Alfred was still speaking.

"I sent your baggage separately, sir. It is waiting for you with the concierge. Simply call downstairs and have them bring it up. I've set up your expense account with the hotel management. You can have anything you want that obviously doesn't impact the successful progress of your leisure time. Mister Kent has assured me that he will handle your entertainment. Take care, Master Bruce. I look forward to seeing you in two weeks."

_"Two weeks?!"_

But Alfred had already hung up the phone, and all Bruce could do was turn incredulous eyes on the man who was hovering in the doorway between the rooms, with a towel around his waist, wet locks of hair curling into sheepish eyes, looking for all the world like a country-bred Adonis.

"What have you done to Alfred?" he growled, voice low, dangerous.

"Gee, Bruce, what have I—? I didn't _do_ anything to Alfred."

"Don't try your bumbling farmboy routine on me, Clark! I'm not buying it. Now why am I here?"

"Everyone was complaining."

_"Everyone?"_

"J'onn came to me. Asked for my help."

"You."

"Yeah, like I could get _you_ to do or not do _anything."_ Clark ran a hand through those messy curls, pushing them out of his eyes.

Bruce felt his own hands clench into fists at his sides. This was completely unacceptable.

"I didn't know what to do, exactly. I wanted to just talk to you about it but it's not like _that's_ ever worked."

"So you went to Alfred behind my back."

"You make it sound so sinister." Clark chuckled, but the chuckle turned into a cough as soon as Bruce took one step forward with hands clenched.

"Okay…yes, I did…sort of…but only to get his opinion, to see if he had any insight into what might be bothering you. I mentioned that maybe you needed a vacation. He agreed, and…ran with the idea." Clark had that carefully structured façade of innocence plastered on his face that Bruce _hated._

"And did he?" Bruce asked through clenched teeth.

"Huh?"

"Have any _insight_ into what's _bothering_ me?"

Clark winced.

"Um…he said that it's your birthday tomorrow," Clark said in a low voice, then in a rush, "and that you might be feeling your age."

He had had enough. Bruce turned his back on Clark and stalked into the bedroom, and over to the window.

Some few minutes went by, but inevitably, Clark came up beside him. They both stared out at the beautiful expanse of sky, punctuated by clouds, staked by mountains.

"I'm sorry," Clark said, quietly. "Somehow, this whole situation got a little out of control. I should have known better than to think you'd want to waste time here. With me."

Bruce froze. There was nothing to say, nothing he was willing to say in response.

"I did have a small incentive ready, in case you were willing to be convinced," Clark added, with a cheeky smile.

Bruce glanced over at him briefly. "An incentive." He was sure to keep his voice flat, declarative rather than curious.

"Yeah," Clark said, "and a pretty good one, if I do say so myself."

Silence fell. Clark seemed quite comfortable looking out the window.

"Well," Bruce prompted finally.

"Well, what?"

_"Clark."_

Clark laughed, and the sound of it made Bruce crack a small smile. The Boy Scout was nothing if not amusing.

"I have something I want to teach you. It's something I learned in the battle against Dominus and, later, when I had to stop Eradicator. I've been practicing it ever since." Clark paused. "It's Kryptonian," he said, hesitantly . . . and _shyly,_ Bruce thought. It was so strange to think of Clark, _Superman,_ as being shy about anything, but there seemed to be no other word that fit his exact tone of voice. The thought sent a strange swirl of tightness through Bruce's stomach.

Clark's next words spiked Bruce's curiosity, though he made not one movement to betray his interest.

"It would allow you to beat Lady Shiva, hand-to-hand, beat anyone, really. Is that…worth something to you?"

Bruce scoffed. "So you're going to teach _me_ something. That'll be the day."

Clark was silent for a moment as if considering. "You're right," he said, finally. "I doubt it would work anyway. The discipline has a unique link to Kryptonian physiology. You have to have a higher degree of mental capacity and willpower in order to master the exercises, achieve the correct result. It's very likely that you can't learn it, even if I tried to teach you."

Bruce's voice went up an incredulous octave. _"Can't?"_

"I wouldn't want to waste your time, Bruce, when it might simply be beyond you. I'd hate for you to be disappointed."

 _"Beyond me?_ You'd hate for me to be _disappointed?"_

Bruce's grin had that toothy quality common in most sharks. "Reverse psychology isn't going to work on me, Clark. I don't know what you and Alfred were thinking, drugging me, _kidnapping_ me, but I'll have you know that it's not going to work. You got that?"

"Yep."

"Now go get dressed. If there's something to be _learned,_ it's best to get an early start. Surely, you, as the _teacher,_ realize this."

Clark's grin spread from ear to ear, providing a ridiculous amount of sunlight in a room awash in blue sky vistas. The smile was also unacceptably smug.

"Get out," he growled, and turned to head into his own bathroom to get dressed.

"You're going to thank me for this one day."

"Clark."

"Hmm?"

"Don't push it."

"Do you have to be so mean, Bruce?"

"Get. Out."

 

6—

Clark closed the door between the rooms and let out a sigh of relief. That was…easier than he had expected, surprisingly. The look on Bruce's face as he was talking to Alfred—it was priceless. He made a mental note to stop by the mansion to give Alfred the details when they got back.

_When they got back._

The thought plastered a goofy grin across Clark's face as he whipped the towel off and threw it across the room, kicking up his feet and tumbling in the air, landing with his feet on the ceiling, defying gravity. He tucked his knees and flipped again, landing in the middle of the room, right side up and still smiling.

He meandered over to his closet, ignored the suits that were hanging there, and pulled out briefs, a light pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt with a Batman logo in large print on the front from one of the interior drawers. He'd have to get dressed more formally later, but he didn't have to make an appearance at the correspondent's conference until 11:30; he still had more than three hours to get Bruce acclimated to their arrangement. Though the man seemed to have relented, Clark knew that it was very important to follow-up on any perceived advantage with Bruce immediately, before the Bat had a chance to change his mind and decide, as a matter of pride, to make things infinitely more difficult for everyone concerned.

In fact, Clark wouldn't be surprised if Bruce had figured out a way to get home and had disappeared in the time it took him to pull on some clothing and brush his hair. Frowning, he used his X-Ray vision to look through the walls and to confirm what he hoped would be the case: that Bruce was in his own suite, getting dressed, as was their tacit agreement.

The Dark Knight was there, doing exactly what was expected of him, walking around his suite in boxers and a robe that was hanging open, revealing a chest that was riddled with scars and abrasions. The extent of it made Clark wince. He watched for a while longer, as Bruce opened the room door to the hotel porter who shepherded in an obscene amount of luggage. Clark remembered that Bruce had no cash with which to tip the guy, and he could see the precise moment that the thought occurred to Bruce, too. Clark tuned his hearing to the conversation, as, scowling, Bruce began making apologies. Not surprisingly, however, the porter informed him that tips for the entire staff had been arranged, in advance, by his personal assistant, Alfred, and that Mr. Wayne wouldn't have to come out-of-pocket for _anything._ Clark resolved to kiss Alfred when they got back. The man was truly a marvel.

He had to pry himself away from watching Bruce dress. It wasn't that he enjoyed being the voyeur, it was just so _rare_ that he had an opportunity to study Bruce without the costume, the cape and the cowl, and without his guard up. If Clark were to admit it—and he'd never admit it—Bruce was one of his only _real_ friends. Oh, he had friends, but they were all compartmentalized. Clark Kent had friends that he worked with, who knew him from college or from Smallville, who were familiar with that façade but who knew nothing about his other lives; Superman had friends with whom he saved the world on occasion, but many of them knew nothing about Clark Kent; then there were the very few who knew Superman _and_ Clark Kent, but really understood nothing about Kal-El. Even Diana, who was familiar with all of his personas, didn't really have the capacity to understand the incredible strain he was under to maintain validity in all aspects of his life. She stood for truth, and maintained no illusions about her identity. She was not the one who could empathize with having to lie to everyone, every day, and feel that it was necessary to do so.

The only person who could understand was Bruce. The two of them had been the first and the finest for so long now—that fact _meant_ something to Clark. It meant that they should be friends. It hurt him that Bruce made such an obvious effort to keep him at arm's length. After all, if he wasn't worthy of the friendship of the one person who had been in his life from the start of his public masquerade, who, though different in so many ways, was the most similar to him of them all, what was he doing here, on Earth? What did his mission mean if he was always so far _removed_ from the very people he was tasked to protect?

But now, he had Bruce's undivided attention, a rare opportunity that he wouldn't waste for the world. As he sat in an armchair and focused his x-ray vision on the wall between their rooms the way a person focuses on a television set, he watched and waited for Bruce to finish unpacking and dressing, incredibly content, more excited about the possibilities inherent in the upcoming weeks than he had ever been about anything. _Ever._

 

7—

A half hour had passed, and Bruce was still debating the appropriate course of action. He knew he was running out of time. Any minute now, Clark would barrel through the door connecting their rooms, with his enthusiasm and idealism, with his propensity to view _reality_ as a disappointment, and effectively take the decision out of his hands.

It was harder for him to disappoint Clark face-to-face and without his cowl as a barrier than he liked to admit.

Bruce refreshed his cup of coffee and wandered through the double doors leading to a balcony that jutted out over the cliff face and that was one of the popular features of the most expensive suites in this hotel. A cold blast of wind hit his face, disrupting the attention he had recently paid to his hair, and it was a refreshing reminder that reality was often bereft of any hint of warmth. That, in fact, the cold was bracing and stimulating in its own way.

It wasn't that he was _opposed_ to some rest and relaxation. Granted, he hadn't taken a formal vacation in a long while, but he had done his share of traveling, even beyond the years he spent abroad training. He attended business meetings all over the world on a regular basis. He often took the time to see the sights and to temporarily liaise with whatever warm body caught his eye. No, Alfred was trying to be crafty, Bruce knew for certain. The man had gotten it in his head that Bruce needed…a partner, someone to provide _comfort_ on a more regular basis. Someone who already knew Bruce's secrets and wouldn't be repelled by his lifestyle, who could, in fact, share his mission in a way that was impossible for the average person. Someone who could understand and tolerate his disposition and appreciate it for what it was—a reflection of his determination not to _fail._ Logically, that person could be Clark.

What Alfred failed to realize was that Bruce wasn't _averse_ to taking a vacation; he was _averse_ to taking a vacation with _Clark._

Like that philosopher who plucked out his eyes to think, Bruce had excised distractions and anything that had the potential to become a distraction from his day-to-day life. Anyone would agree that the unmitigated attention of _Superman_ would be one heck of a _distraction._ Bruce was privileged to know the many facets of Superman, and of Clark Kent, and of Kal-El, and knew that he'd likely lose himself in the threefold stimulation of a person who was so unique, there wasn't another like him in the whole universe.

The last son of Krypton. Bruce knew himself too well. What wouldn't he do to be the one around whom Clark established an orbit, to be the only one allowed to explore his singularity with the intimacy reserved for a loved one? It was a temptation that could not only impact his mission, it could destroy his motivation altogether.

The sun had risen over the mountains. Bruce weighed his options carefully. He was sure that whatever Clark was offering to teach him . . . was priceless. Fate and a certain butler had conspired to throw them together for a finite length of time. He could circumvent, but he'd sacrifice that knowledge—and the knowledge could one day make a difference in the furtherance of his mission. He had learned during the years of his apprenticeship that karma could only be avoided for so long. Perhaps he should take this opportunity to redefine his relationship with Clark, embrace the distraction so he'd be better able to put it aside, having had his fill. Yes, that's what he'd do, but it would be on his terms. His way.

Having reached a decision, he turned to greet Clark as the other man joined him on the balcony. And froze.

"What . . . in the world are you _wearing?"_ he asked, amazed to see Clark in a T-shirt with his own Bat-logo emblazoned across the front like a badge of ownership and a matching Bat-branded baseball cap. The sight made Bruce blink once, twice—made him close his eyes for a heartbeat, open them—and caused a fluttering thrill to settle in the pit of his stomach, swirling there like a thread of heavy cream through coffee. It was just _wrong_ to see Clark wearing his symbol. Dangerously, impossibly _wrong._

"Oh, this?" Clark said with a sheepish grin. "It's my Batman T-shirt."

"Your . . . Batman T-shirt."

"Yeah. You know you're my idol, Bruce."

"That isn't funny," Bruce said, frowning. He put his cup down carefully on a small table that separated two reclining chairs and leaned against the balcony balustrade, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't think it's appropriate for you to be wearing my logo, Clark. You don't see me running around with an 'S' on my chest."

Clark grinned, and then settled his long limbs in one of the recliners, looking up at Bruce innocently. "I think you'd look stunning in a Superman T-shirt, Bruce. Perhaps I should get you one for your birthday."

Bruce scoffed. "As if."

"Suit yourself," Clark said shrugging. "Are you ready to go?"

 _"No, I'm not ready to go."_ Bruce was exasperated. "I want you to change shirts."

"Now you're being silly." Clark frowned at Bruce's stubborn glare. "I won't," he said. "Beside, I have every right to wear this shirt. After all, I own the licensing."

"What?"

"The licensing. I'm sure you understand the concept."

Bruce unfolded his arms and gripped the balustrade for support. "What do you mean you own the licensing?"

Clark leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head, studying the sky. "It's really nice out here."

_"Clark."_

Clark glanced his way briefly, then resumed his contemplation of the clouds. "Well, remember the first time we met? You were little more than an urban legend that I had decided to investigate. You were acting like a jerk, Bruce," Clark said, with an accusatory edge to his voice that Bruce absorbed in speechless amazement. "You kind of pissed me off, with your holier-than-thou, I'm the big, bad Batman, no one understands Gotham better than me routine."

Bruce found his voice. "Clark . . . what does this have to do with _anything?"_

"Well . . . when I got back to the _Planet,_ I did some investigating. I found out that no one owned the rights to the word 'Batman' and no one had trademarked your Bat-logo." He paused. "So I did."

"You did."

"Yes."

Bruce realized he was blinking at Clark owlishly, but for the life of him, he couldn't get his responses under control. This was just so . . . surreal. This was _Clark_ he was dealing with—sometimes goofy, often oblivious, infuriatingly simplistic, insanely innocent _Clark_ . . . wasn't it?

Clark continued his explanation in a bland tone of voice, "A few years back a merchandiser contacted me about creating a line of Bat products. Of course, by then, you had become very popular with the kids despite your rather…unorthodox methods. Seems people like things that are edgy . . . and black. Go figure."

Clark glanced over at Bruce, apparently to gauge his reaction. Bruce was careful to keep a measured amount of impassivity on his face.

"Anyway, the guy was very industrious, and I had a friend negotiate a very favorable contract. I make money on everything that says 'Batman' or that has a Batman logo on it. Forty cents on every dollar."

_"Forty cents?!"_

"Sometimes more," Clark agreed. "He pays more for the use of the domain name." Clark shrugged. "The terms are very favorable."

Bruce expelled a breath he didn't realize had become pent up in his chest, shook his head in disgust, and headed into the hotel suite.

"Come on, Bruce," he heard Clark call out behind him. "I can't believe you're mad at me over this."

Bruce sat down on the couch, crossed his legs, and waited. It only took Clark three minutes and thirty-six seconds to decide to join him.

"Wouldn't you rather it was me that owned the rights, rather than someone like Luthor? Someone would have thought of it eventually. It's not like you or any of your companies could have risked making the registrations without endangering your secret identity. I'm as good a person as anyone."

When Bruce remained silent, Clark continued a little nervously, "It's not like I'm going to call you up one day to tell you to stop using your own logo, Bruce. Obviously, you own the common law rights to your name and logo. No one would dispute that you had it first. Of course, you couldn't pursue those rights without Batman appearing in court—which wouldn't be a good idea, by the way...." Clark trailed off. "Bruce . . . say something."

"I want to set the ground rules for our little vacation," Bruce growled.

"Uh . . . okay. Fine."

"You said you have something to teach me."

Clark nodded his head.

"And you want me to agree to stay here and play _nice,"_ he allowed a few teeth to show, "for two weeks while I attempt to learn this amazing Kryptonian discipline."

"There's no need to be snide, Bruce."

"Well, my time is valuable Clark. I think I want something more from you to make it worth my while."

"Like what?" Clark asked slowly, with knitted brows.

"It's simple," Bruce said with a smile of pearly white knives that made Clark take a step backwards. "I want whatever happens here to stay here. I want you to agree that no matter what, at the end of the two weeks we resume our normal working relationship and you never bring up anything that happens at this resort." He shrugged nonchalantly. "This way we can both have . . . a good time without worrying about anything. Certainly, it would help me to relax. You _do_ want me to relax, Clark, right?"

"Uh . . . yeah." Clark gazed at him suspiciously. "But you agree to try to have a good time?"

"Absolutely." Bruce did his best to appear impassive, but his insides were churning like the break of the tide.

"So, we have an agreement?" he asked, sticking out a hand.

Clark's large, warm hand clasped his own.

"We have an agreement."

 

8—

Clark stole glances at his companion as they exited the suite and headed for the elevator. He couldn't remember ever having seen Bruce so casually attired. He was wearing a jogging suit of contrasting blues that managed to compliment the ice-like translucency of his eyes, and running shoes—his hair was even slightly mussed from the wind. Most surprising, perhaps, was the relaxed way he carried himself, the way he glided down the hall, all confidence and long, even strides, as if he had resigned himself to the current situation and was free to be a different person—not phony in the way of his playboy persona but more settled, more _content._ Clark realized he didn't know this version of Bruce Wayne, and the realization was startling.

"You seem more relaxed already," Clark commented as Bruce called for the elevator.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him disdainfully. "Despite popular opinion, I don't eat small children for breakfast."

"Speaking of breakfast…" Clark said, as the elevator arrived.

"You're hungry." Bruce's voice was flat, long-suffering. "Why does that not surprise me? You could have had them bring something up to the room."

"Didn't think of it. Too busy implementing my Bat-strategy."

"You had a strategy?" Bruce was clearly dubious.

"Absolutely," Clark explained with a grin as the elevator came to a halt and he followed his friend into the lobby and around the promenade. "Capture, contain…gentle."

"You think I've been _gentled?"_

"You do seem like a totally different person, Bruce."

They approached a lobby café that was serving breakfast. "You keep thinking that way, Clark," he grinned widely, with a wicked glint in his eye that made Clark just a little nervous. "I'd hate to spoil the surprise."

"What surprise?"

"Just go grab a seat," Bruce said, motioning with his head in the direction of the restaurant. "I'll be right there."

Clark had to stop himself from following Bruce automatically and, instead, headed into the café as instructed. It annoyed him to realize that Bruce had been leading him around, as if he had somehow managed to study the blueprint of the resort in the ninety minutes between the time he woke up in his room and the time they had reached the lobby. No matter how hard Clark tried to throw Bruce off his game, the man managed to end up holding all the marbles. Clark had a sinking feeling that Bruce was going to end up being in control of Clark's control of his vacation. He sighed. Some things never change.

"Clark!"

Turning at the sound of his name, Clark spotted Lori and Meredith, two reporters from the _Los Angeles Times._ He strolled over, smiling.

"I was wondering if I'd have the pleasure of your company on this trip," he said with mock gallantry, pulling out a chair and sitting down. His fellow reporters smiled in return.

"I did send you an email, Clark," Lori said, as she leaned in a little closer and put a hand on his arm.

"Must have missed it. I was out in the field and didn't go back to the office before I left Metropolis." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Chasing a lead. You know how it is."

The ladies plied him with light banter and work-related gossip, while Clark responded in kind, keeping one ear trained on Bruce's conversation in the lobby. He was happy to run into his fellow reporters, who were friends that he only got to see when he was in Los Angeles or at periodic functions such as the one they were currently attending. Usually, their company was most welcome—after all, they were both beautiful and a lot of fun—but really, Bruce required all of his concentration, he realized. What if the man changed his mind and disappeared like so much smoke on the wind while he was busy chatting up the ladies?

"Clark?" Meredith said, with a small frown. "Are you listening?"

"Of course," he assured her and artfully managed to knock over a glass of water, causing everyone at the table to jump up and scramble for napkins. "Sorry," he said, with his best air of bashfulness. "Um…you were asking about my presentation?"

She hit him in the arm playfully. "The least you can do is pay attention!"

It was then that the women noticed Bruce making his way towards them and all conversation stopped.

"Bruce," Clark said wryly, somewhat amused by the reaction of his friends, "I'd like you to meet Lori and Meredith. They're reporters at the _L.A. Times,_ here for the conference."

Smiling, and with his most charming playboy façade firmly in place, Bruce greeted both ladies and proceeded to disburse compliments like candy. Clark sat back in his chair, completely superfluous at the moment, until Bruce caught his eye.

"Ladies," he said, "as much as I'm enjoying your company, I'm going to have to steal Clark away. We have some business to discuss and it can't wait."

Both ladies made small sounds of disappointment, encouraging Bruce to stay, pull up a seat, share the table, but Bruce declined, and as Clark stood up, shrugging apologetically, Bruce threw an arm around his shoulders and grinned.

"Perhaps you'll let us make it up to you? With dinner tonight?"

The ladies happily agreed to be escorted to dinner at seven o'clock, and with the evening arranged, Bruce proceeded to steer Clark in the direction of a small, secluded table, out of sight of prying eyes and away from the main crowd of customers.

"I asked you to get _us_ a table, Clark."

Bruce's voice was low, and, Clark thought, entirely too close to his ear. He also smelled unreasonably good…for a guy. Uncomfortably, Clark extricated himself from Bruce's grasp and seated himself at their table.

"I was going to but I couldn't very well ignore them. We could have joined them, you know," he added reasonably. _"You_ seemed to like them."

"I thought you'd be able to recognize the playboy act by now, Clark," Bruce said disdainfully.

"Oh, it's an _act,"_ Clark grumbled under his breath, but Bruce pointedly ignored him.

"We could have stayed with them," Bruce continued, "but then _you_ would have had to play at being Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter, and _I_ would have had to play at being Bruce Wayne, air-headed playboy. I thought you wanted me to relax."

"Yeah, but—"

"Keeping up an act is not very restful, Clark," Bruce admonished him with a waggle of a finger. "If you're really concerned about my welfare you'll have to entertain me yourself."

Clark was silent for a moment. "So no women?" He just wanted to clarify Bruce's position. "But you just asked them to dinner."

Bruce picked up a menu. "We do have to eat, Clark."

"Oh."

Bruce spent a short amount of time looking at the menu and then waved the waiter over. Clark was drumming his fingers on the table, until a pointed glare from Bruce skewered him. After that, he simply folded his hands in his lap as Bruce requested fruit with cottage cheese and Clark placed his much larger order.

"I spoke to the concierge," Bruce was saying as he unzipped the jacket to his jogging suit and placed it behind his chair. "I want to bike the trail that circles the lake. It's seventy-two miles. We'll have to camp out." He gazed at Clark speculatively. "Is that okay with you?"

"Sure."

"I also want to see if we can get in a climb up Mount Whitney while we're here."

"I could fly you to the top."

Bruce glared at him witheringly, and Clark could only laugh.

"As I was saying," Bruce continued, ignoring Clark's continued mirth, "the trip up the mountain will also require a night outdoors. I've ordered our equipment and made a number of other arrangement, but I'll leave the decision about which days we go up to you—"

Bruce stopped, eyeing him suspiciously. Nervously, Clark looked around for the waiter.

"You already know all this," Bruce accused. "You were listening."

Clark pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled sheepishly. "A little bit."

"Is that like being a little bit pregnant?" Bruce asked with a sarcastic edge to his voice. "I see we're going to have to re-visit the ground rules. I won't have you spying on me, Clark."

"This from the paranoid Bat-surveiller from hell."

"Clark—"

"You can't ask me not to listen, Bruce," Clark reasoned, shrugging. "I simply wanted to make sure you hadn't changed your mind about our deal and were slipping out the back door."

"I said I would stay," Bruce growled. "I honor my agreements. I would never break my word to you. You should know that."

Clark sighed. "I do. I'm sorry. I guess your paranoia is rubbing off on me." He was silent for a moment. "I'm still going to listen, though," he said in a rush, with a hint of defiance. "But I'll restrict it to your heartbeat, just to make sure you're okay."

"What?" Bruce was looking at him quizzically. "You can do that?"

Clark pursed his lips. "Of course…why…you didn't know? How do you think I'm always able to show up just in time to pull your fat out of the fire?" Clark was trying for a bit of braggadocio but it fell sort of flat.

Bruce had picked up a fork and was distractedly tapping it against his water glass. "I don't know," he said at last. "I just assumed you had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, like a guardian angel. Plus with your super speed . . ."

"I'm not fast enough to stop some wacko from dunking you in a vat of acid if I can't find you," he explained. "I can't turn back time."

"So you're listening," Bruce said. "All the time."

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Clark chuckled nervously. "I suppose it's like an invisible process that you'd run on a computer. I hear it, but it's just background noise that I tune out for the most part. Unless I need to focus on it."

"And you do this for everyone you know?"

"Uh . . . not exactly."

Bruce raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Just for you," Clark mumbled. "I can't listen to _everyone,"_ Clark explained, "or I _could,_ but at a certain point it gets too hard to concentrate. So I memorize the beats of the people close to me, and if I need to, I can usually locate the person without too much trouble." Clark paused, and then admitted grudgingly, "You're the only one I listen to constantly."

Bruce was silent, still. "Why?" he finally asked.

Clark looked away, locked eyes on the approaching waiter who was carrying their tray of food across the room. "Because you're always in so much danger, Bruce. You're completely unreasonable. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you."

He cleared his throat and then spent an uncomfortable few minutes arranging the baseball cap on his head while the waiter placed the food on the table. Immediately, Clark picked up his fork and started shoveling eggs into his mouth, immeasurably relieved to have an excuse not to have to talk. But Bruce was studying him over the rim of his water goblet, in that infuriatingly passive way of his that said a person's insides were laid bare for his perusal. If Clark hadn't known better, he'd have thought that Bruce was the one with the X-Ray vision.

"There's a lot I don't know about you, Clark," he said, as he exchanged his glass for a fork. "Fortunately, that's something we have time to fix."

 

9—

"Do you always eat this much?" Bruce asked as he sipped his juice. He hadn't intended to comment out loud on the pancakes, the eggs, the bacon, the toast, the hash browns, and the fruit that Clark was steadily devouring, but as watched the food disappear into Clark's super maw, he couldn't help himself.

The fork froze in mid-air on the way to Clark's mouth. "What?"

Bruce shook his head, pushed his chair away from the table a bit and crossed his long legs, then continued in a mild tone of voice, "I was just wondering if you always eat this much in the morning or is this a special occasion?"

"I grew up on a farm, Bruce. I eat breakfast. Sue me."

"When I was in Tibet, I adopted the habit of eating sparingly in the mornings. All things in moderation."

Clark dropped his fork. "Would you like me to stop eating, Bruce?"

Bruce raised his hands in mock surrender. "Not at all. I was just wondering if all that food made you sluggish. Perhaps impacted your ability to achieve lift off."

"I have a fast metabolism," Clark grumbled, reacquiring his fork and refusing to look in Bruce's direction. "I don't have to worry about what I eat."

"Convenient. Alfred would just _love_ having you around the house."

"Would you _stop?"_

Bruce relented. Needling Clark was more fun than he had expected. It was almost an entertainment all on its own. The farmboy's face was just so…expressive, and his buttons were just too obvious and too easy to push.

Perhaps that was the attraction, he speculated. Clark was a mystery. He was so easy that he was…complicated. He was the one without the mask yet his façade was so impenetrable that Clark and Superman seemed like two separate entities, even to a person who knew both personas well. There had to be points of intersection, overlapping vectors, a true, unvarnished face buried beneath it all. He suspected it was the face Clark showed in the throes of passion, when every barrier had been breached, every skein discarded. Bruce wondered if he'd ever get to see it.

"You're staring at me."

For once, Bruce let a smile spread across his face unfettered, shocking Clark into silence.

"Are you finished stuffing your face?" he asked mildly. "I made arrangements for private use of the solarium in the mornings while we're here. We should go."

 

10—

The solarium was a small structure of glass panels, a brisk walk away from the main resort complex. The morning was bright, the air crisp and clean, and Clark could already hear Bruce's complaints about the absurd amount of open space and the wild washes of sunlight as compared to the gloomy, concrete-edged shadows of Gotham. They would be the same complaints that he voiced on practically every visit to Metropolis—though, obviously, Metropolis was nothing like _this._ But Bruce surprised him, yet again, and said nothing pejorative. He simply strolled at Clark's side in companionable silence until they reached their destination.

"They're letting us use _this?"_ Clark couldn't believe that the hotel would allow the exclusive use of such a beautiful structure to anyone, but all Bruce did was smirk at his expressed amazement, as if he should remember that he was _Bruce Wayne,_ billionaire industrialist, and that this was merely his due. Oftentimes, Bruce encouraged the people around him to forget that he was richer than God; apparently, Clark thought as he made a small sound of disgust, this was not one of those times.

As the two of them entered and walked a quick circuit around the interior, Clark was struck mute by how the tinted glass walls refracted the sunlight streaming through, turning it from a cool brightness to a warm sepia-toned caress that fed the garden of plants and flowers decorating the interior and made his skin feel like it was glowing. This place was perfect.

He turned to Bruce to tell him so.

Those eyes were on his face, and they were so blue and so intense that Clark forgot for a moment what he wanted to say. Would he ever get used to having Bruce Wayne standing by his side, with eyes like deep pools of starlight that he could sink into at will and without warning? It was no wonder Bruce had chosen a mask that hid his eyes so completely. His eyes—they were his most remarkable feature, Clark realized. It occurred to him with the sudden clarity of an unwelcome revelation, that he had agreed to the shuttering of those eyes at the end of a mere two weeks. It wasn't enough _time._

"Bruce, I—" Clark realized that his hand was gripping his friend's arm, and he took a small step backwards before releasing him abruptly. "This place is perfect," he said, somewhat embarrassed by the way his thoughts had galloped off with him. He turned quickly and headed to the middle of the room, where someone had set up a regulation-sized workout mat and a side station with towels and bottled water.

"Seems you got them to go all out," he murmured, practically under his breath, but he knew Bruce had heard him by the way the corner of his mouth twitched.

As Bruce stripped off the jacket to his jogging suit to reveal a plain, white T-shirt and toed off his running shoes and socks, he adopted that lecturing tone of voice that always grated on Clark's nerves, the one that intimated that everyone within the sound of it was so far behind the curve as to be useless. "Surely, you're aware of the importance of consistency within each persona, Clark, even when it seems unnecessary," he said as he took a seat, cross-legged, in the middle of the mat. "I'm a rich playboy, here for an extended vacation. If I make no demands, if I neglect to request the best of everything in the same way that anyone from a background similar to mine surely would, my stay here would become remarkable because of my deviation from expectations. As it is," he explained as he began to stretch, folding his upper body over one bent knee, "my time here will comport with the vacations of hundreds of other wealthy businessmen; the edges will blur, and I will seem hardly remarkable at all."

"I doubt that."

"You doubt me?" Bruce asked, lifting his head up and watching Clark's progress as he also removed his shoes and socks and dropped down on the mat in front of Bruce.

"I don't doubt you," Clark said, extending his legs and wiggling his toes. "I doubt that anything you do could make you unremarkable."

"I know," Bruce agreed, sighing melodramatically. "It's a burden I must bear—brains, good looks, personal and professional success, sparkling personality, good teeth—"

Clark raised a leg and kicked him in the thigh.

"Ouch, Clark!" Bruce said, rubbing his thigh and pushing Clark's leg away. "Do you have to be so rough?"

"Did I hurt you?" Clark was immediately sorry. He didn't think he had kicked Bruce particularly hard.

"Gotcha." Bruce raised his fingers like a toy gun and pantomimed shooting at his friend. "You're such a sucker, Clark."

"Keep it up," Clark mumbled. "We'll see who's the sucker."

Bruce dropped onto his back and started doing sit-ups. "Is that a threat, Clark, or a promise?"

"What?"

There was a small exhalation of air on the upswing that could have been a sigh. "Never mind. Why don't you tell me about what I'll be learning."

This was the part of the plan that Clark had looked forward to the most. It was unprecedented that he should be in a position to teach Bruce _anything._ The Batman of Gotham knew how to do it all, had knowledge of every conceivable thing that could be useful to his mission. He had traveled the world, sought knowledge for its own sake, and had one of the sharpest, most phenomenal minds of anyone Clark had ever met. If there happened to be something Bruce thought he needed to know and didn't, he would seek out a teacher, and the person who Bruce selected as his guide was put up a pedestal and afforded a measure of trust that was reserved for an elite few. Over the years, Clark had always envied those teachers—Jason Blood, Mr. Miracle and the like—those _friends_ that Bruce seemed to hold in the highest esteem. He was ashamed to admit it but he desperately— _desperately_ —wanted to be a member of that group.

So he got up from the floor, took off his glasses and placed them on the table, and left his every mask on the table with the glasses. He reclaimed his seat across from his friend with all the knowledge of a dead planet and the history of its people in his eyes, bare for the taking.

He started with the history in a low, solemn voice, explaining the ancient warrior art of Torquasm-Vo, the meditative, mind-control technique of the theta state, and how he had discovered its use in his battles with the alien priest Dominus and the Kryptonian legate Eradicator. He recounted the epic battles for an audience of one who absorbed his words in intense silence, explaining how he was forced to master not only Torquasm-Vo but also the martial form of the meditative art known as Torquasm-Rao. How his quick mastery had been the only thing that saved him from the mind control of his enemies and ultimate defeat; how he was forced to enter the phantom zone, and, with the help of his ancestor Kem-El, underwent an ancient Kryptonian rite of passage that allowed him the full benefit of the legacy of the House of El. Bruce peppered him with questions, but for the most part, he simply absorbed every word like a sponge, as Clark recounted Kryptonian religious beliefs and high science; compared it to the study of quantum physics—which did mange to provoke a frenzy of questions from Bruce, the scientist.

"Who else knows about this?" Bruce asked, when they reached a natural stopping point in the conversation.

"No one," Clark said. "Now, only you."

Bruce nodded his head and seemed immanently satisfied with his response.

"How do we get started?"

The sun, visible through the glass roof, was steadily making its way towards the apex of the sky. He hadn't much time left before he had to head back to his room to change for the conference. "You have to master Torquasm-Vo, Bruce, before you can tackle Torquasm-Rao. Vo is similar in concept to Tai Chi or yoga; obviously the forms shouldn't be too hard for someone like you. But we only have two weeks—hardly enough time to master anything, let alone Vo, and especially not Rao. I have some ideas on how to speed up the process a little, but we have to face the fact that at the end of two weeks, you'd have only brushed the surface."

Bruce waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about that. I'm sure we can make time to practice when we get back."

Clark tried to restrain the smile that threatened to run rampant across his face, knowing that Bruce wouldn't appreciate it. He was successful—but it was hard, very, very hard. He continued with what he hoped was some impassivity, "Then there's the fact that these disciplines weren't designed for human physiology. A Kryptonian body functions somewhat differently. Then there's the mental aspect. Torquasm requires a higher form of mental functioning, a Kryptonian level. I had to complete a rite of passage, unlocking key areas of my brain before I could proceed past a certain point." Clark paused. "It's dangerous, Bruce. I don't want to mislead you. As you noticed, I haven't attempted this with anyone else. I don't know what effect—"

If he had thought his cautionary advice would dissuade Bruce, the look in his eyes said otherwise and stopped Clark cold. There was a flinty determination edged with an intense curiosity in Bruce's eyes that said as loud as words that Clark better not even _think_ about backing out now.

Clark continued with the pros, since Bruce seemed determined to ignore the cons. "But it is almost impossible for a single combatant to defeat someone with practical knowledge of Torquasm-Vo, and you'd be uniquely capable of fending off multiple opponents and remaining relatively unharmed. The discipline would allow you to fight on multiple planes, achieve various states of preternatural awareness, see things before they happen, change outcomes. It would protect you; make you even better than you are now. Age would mean nothing to you. It's the legacy of my House, and I want you to have it."

Bruce was silent for a moment, then into the quiet that had settled between them he asked, "How?"

"How what?"

"Exactly how is Kryptonian physiology different from human physiology?"

"Well…there's…I…you want to discuss this now?"

Bruce studied him for a moment. "We will discuss this later, after dinner," he decided. "Continue."

"Well, there's not much more to say, Bruce. If you understand the potential danger—"

"I do."

"Then we can get started. I have that presentation I have to make to the assembly at eleven-thirty so I'll only have time right now to show you some of the basics, but it should be good enough for a beginning."

 

11—

Every touch, every gentle correction, hand to shoulder, to hip, to chin, encouraging the correct movement, a more pleasing posture, the proper transition, was like a finger of flame against his flesh, even through his clothing. In the gentle morning light and the uncertain hour of a new beginning, of an endeavor newly begun, Clark's proximity, even when his hands were demonstrating instead of touching, was making it very hard—almost impossible—for Bruce to concentrate on anything other than the slow flush that was heating his body, curling like rising smoke in his midsection. He shrugged Clark's hands off his arm, his hip, and stepped out of the atmosphere of a man who seemed to radiate warmth like a small sun.

"Show me," he said, voice gruff, controlled, but only just. "Let me see if I can follow."

Clark proceeded to move slowly through the exercises, the forms and transitions, that they had been practicing for the last forty-five minutes. Bruce settled into a stance facing Clark and, using the Kryptonian as a mirror, attempted to mimic his movements to the smallest degree.

"Torquasm-Vo," Clark said in a low voice as he completed a particularly graceful transition, "is a way to open the meridians and let the life force of the universe— _shreearr,_ Kryptonians called it—flow through the practitioner, cleansing and purifying both form and spirit."

Clark held a position for a moment longer than was necessary, allowing Bruce enough time to get it right.

"There's a right way to do it, Bruce, but there's also no wrong way. It's not about getting it right in the technical sense. The universe notes our effort and responds to it."

"Stop smiling," Bruce grumbled. The kata that Clark demonstrated so fluidly was surprisingly difficult in detail. The flow was somehow…unnatural…as compared to other meditative forms of which Bruce was proficient. And, it was beginning to gall him that Clark could do something so effortlessly that was causing Bruce more than a little trouble. Plus, Clark was smiling, for absolutely no reason, and the white distraction and the sunlight that seemed to be having a love affair with his skin was more than any man—even the Batman—could easily ignore.

"I can't concentrate with you _smiling,"_ Bruce said, trying to correct his form. "Training is supposed to be a serious matter."

"I am serious, Bruce. I'm just happy. You should try it sometime."

"I'm not _un_ happy," he grumbled, "I just don't find it necessary to go around grinning like a loon."

"Concentrate, Bruce," Clark said, but he did lose the smile and replaced it with a mask of impassivity that almost caused Bruce to retract his words, apologize for dampening something precious, but Bruce knew he was right. It was important to be serious-minded in training; smiles should be saved for when there was no more work to do.

"Breathe deeply," Clark said. "Keep your head up . . . eyes forward—The movements have to be slow . . . but fluid . . . as if you're moving through an ocean of energy . . . mind clear . . . focused inward—"

Bruce was in sync with his mirror, in a timeless flow, an aching dissonance, that seemed to pull at him, desire him, want to absorb him in a swirl of lights, an absence of color. The next thing he realized, he was down on one knee, head spinning, with no idea what had happened.

"Bruce!" Clark was at his side, kneeling down, with hands on his shoulders in concern. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," Bruce said slowly, swiping at Clark's hands and getting to his feet. "I saw . . ." he paused, "the universe. Is that supposed to happen?"

Clark was on his feet and at his side in a heartbeat, which was rather annoying to Bruce because he could read the concern on Clark's face; it was as if he was in danger of fainting at any moment and Clark had tasked himself to remain nearby to prevent the fall.

"Torquasm- _Rao_ opens up the power centers in the spine, and—" Clark stopped. "But we're only doing the basics of Vo. It shouldn't—" Clark shook his head as if he had come to a decision. "We should stop."

"I'm not a hothouse flower, Clark. I won't wilt and die under the strain."

"Still—"

"Clark." Bruce folded his arms across his chest, staring at his friend.

"Bruce." Clark folded his own arms across his chest. "It's too dangerous. I'd never forgive myself if you got hurt."

"You won't have to forgive yourself. It's my decision to make, and I accept the risk."

"Well, I don't."

Bruce was silent for a moment, considering. Then he said, "If you refuse to meet your end of our agreement, Clark, I'm on the next flight home."

They stared at each other, and even without the costumes, it was a battle of will between two of the world's greatest heroes. Bruce almost wavered at the deep pools of hurt that seemed to sink Clark's eyes.

"You're such an ass," he said, with that touch of bitterness that Bruce had almost forgotten about in the rush of the day's events, the bitterness in Clark that he had nurtured and could count on to bring up Clark's defenses, whenever their relationship got too personal. "You always manage to go for the jugular. I should let you leave, now that I know you're only here because of what I can _do_ for you." Clark turned away, walked over to the bench and proceeded to don socks and shoes. "But I won't. I'll keep my promise to try to teach you what I know, despite my better judgment, just so you'll have to be stuck here for two weeks, with me, _suffering,_ just to get what you want."

What was there to say? Clark was wrong; he did want to stay at the resort, he did appreciate Clark's company, but he also wanted Clark to live up to his end of their agreement, not back out of it based on some misguided need to protect him. He had succeeded, but it cost him a whole day of progress with Clark as the sacrifice.

"I have to go get dressed," Clark was saying. "I'm sure you can entertain yourself in my absence. I should be finished around three. We'll pick up with all this," he waved a hand, "in the morning."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Bruce to pull on his socks, then his running shoes, then his jacket, with a small smile spreading slowly across his face. He would simply start his assault on the fortress again. They had time. Clark would forgive him, sooner than anyone else would, he was sure. He always did.

 

12—

As he walked away from the bright little building with the walls of glass, Clark silently berated himself for caring one way or the other whether Bruce was safe or happy or any other thing that a habitual bastard could be and usually wasn't, but there was a soft spot in the steel of his skin, a chink in his armor that was reserved for Bruce, that only the Dark Knight could breach, and every time Bruce wanted him to back off, he automatically went for Clark's weakest point, the one with his name on it, and every time it hurt Clark that much more.

It was stupid of him, but he thought they were having a good time.

He had to figure out what he wanted from Bruce, what he could reasonably expect, because the Gotham Knight never changed, he was always deep shadows and singularity, mission and intensity—

Except, he wasn't always that way. For someone who professed to be a loner, Bruce attracted adherents like a prophet.

But he was always exactly that way with Clark—the holding back, the taking away, the terrible truncation of anything resembling a normal friendship.

Clark entered the lobby, checked the time. He had more than enough—time.

So before he headed up to his room to change, he stopped at the concierge, because tomorrow was his best friend's birthday, and whether or not Bruce felt the same, Clark wanted the day to be special.

 

13—

Bruce Wayne was nothing if not well versed in the ways of apologizing. His double life guaranteed that he spent much of his time presenting flowers, candy, jewelry when necessary, bad poetry when the case was extreme, to whichever young lady he had slighted by thought or by deed. However, all of his experience seemed hackneyed, passé, less than useless when faced with the question of how best to apologize to Clark Kent.

One thing Bruce was certain of, however: it was advisable not to let anything fester with Clark. Even though the farmboy had a ridiculously forgiving nature, protracted acrimony would only make the man stubborn. Bruce preferred not to have to navigate Clark's propensity to pig-headedness in addition to his over-protective nature. After all, they were supposed to be on vacation.

So, after Clark had vacated the solarium, Bruce made his own way back to his room, had a bite to eat, got dressed and ambled down to the lobby to scare up a schedule of events for the conference-in-residence: the twenty-second annual meeting of the Society of Professional Journalists. He thumbed through the event booklet and located the information he wanted. Clark Kent was listed as the presenter for the professional development workshop series: Investigative Journalism 101, Investigating Politicians and Other Government Officials. The workshop was taking place in the auditorium.

Bruce arrived ten minutes into the program. Clark was on stage in a cream-colored suit, with an electric pointer and a PowerPoint presentation on the screen behind him, extolling the virtues of cultivating relationships when investigating politicos on the take. Bruce grabbed a seat in an empty side section, in a place where he wouldn't disturb anyone with his late arrival but where he was sure Clark could notice him with his special talents.

It only took twenty minutes for Bruce to become truly impressed with Clark's presentation. He was as charismatic as Superman giving a speech in front of the United Nations but as knowledgeable about investigative reporting as Clark Kent, award-winning reporter for one of the country's largest newspapers, should be. He was funny, and well organized, his intelligence was as apparent as his physical attributes, if not more so because of the façade; he was self-deprecating and accessible to his audience. In short, he was everything a "Superman" should be, just without the costume.

At the end of it all, when Clark paused to take a sip of water, Bruce whispered, "Bravo, Clark, well done," under his breath, and the way Clark turned, and looked in his direction, caught his eyes through a roomful of people, assured Bruce that he had heard his praise and appreciated the admiration behind it. As Clark dismissed the assembly and offered to stay and answer questions, Bruce was very glad he had been able to experience Clark Kent, the journalist, yet another hat the man managed to wear so well. He sat back in his seat to wait for Clark to finish.

For another thirty minutes, Bruce watched while young ladies and a certain few men threw themselves at Clark under the pretense of asking him questions about his presentation. Bruce decided that, later, when they were alone, he'd explain to Clark the benefit of wearing a fake wedding ring for occasions like this; Clark couldn't possibly enjoy all of this attention, though he certainly maintained an appropriate game face, Bruce grudgingly admitted, as one persistent brunette stepped even closer to Clark, placed a hand on his arm and gazed up at him adoringly. Clark actually looked interested in what she had to say, and allowed her to pass him something, which could have been a phone number, or a business card, or a room key, for that matter.

Bruce sat up straighter in his seat. He didn't like waiting, and shot icicle glares of death at the people crowding around, at the persistent brunette, but most of all, at Clark, who was perpetuating this circus with his country-bred pleasantness. After several minutes, Clark seemed to notice his annoyance. The auditorium emptied quickly, thereafter. Once the last person had exited, Bruce got to his feet and made his way to the stage.

"Are you still mad at me?" he asked, looking up at Clark from where he leaned againt the base of the stage.

"I wasn't mad at you," Clark grumbled, reaching for his briefcase and depositing his notes inside.

Bruce made a sound of disbelief, deep in his throat.

"Fine. But I wasn't mad. I was disappointed."

"Clark," he said mildly, "I don't see why you take everything I say so personally. I simply wanted you to trust my judgment. Allow me to make my own decisions."

Clark chuffed air in disgust. "How can you make the right decision when you don't know all of the facts? You don't even understand the possible repercussions, not really."

"And you do?"

"Better than you!"

"You're only guessing, Clark. The bottom line is that I want to try to learn this thing. I have the utmost confidence that I can. Your job is to teach me, allow me to see how far I can go."

"And to catch you if you fall, Bruce. That's what's pissing me off. What if I can't?"

"I trust you to do everything you can do. I need you to trust me."

There was silence between them as Clark descended the stage and they were once again standing side-by-side.

Clark sighed. "There's no one I trust more."

Lips twitched, eyes sparkled. "And Clark," Bruce said, reaching out and straightening Clark's tie, "just because I want one thing doesn't mean that I don't also want another."

Clark batted the hand away from his clothing. "Could you _be_ any more vague?"

"I'm glad I'm here, Clark. I'm glad you're here. If I had to be the subject of one of Alfred's devious schemes to put me out to pasture for two weeks, there's no one I'd rather have at my side, munching grass, than you." Bruce paused, for one beat, two. An eyebrow went up. "Happy now?"

"You had to ruin it. Just shut up."

"Your wish is my command."

"Great then," Clark said. "Let's go. I'm hungry."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Are you telling me that you're not hungry? We haven't eaten since breakfast."

Bruce dug his hand into his pockets as he led the way out of the auditorium. Over his shoulder, he said, "I had some fruit in the room before I came down. And a sandwich. Oh, and some salad."

"Of course you did." Clark's voice was flat. "You are _such_ an ass."

Bruce smirked. "But I'm an ass who likes your company and who is willing to sit with you while you eat."

Clark's smile was like the sun.

Bruce Wayne was a world-class apologizer. Making things right had never been so easy. Making things right had never been such a relief.

 

14—

Watching Clark get out of the swimming pool was the equivalent of a wet dream, Bruce decided. The way the water sluiced off of his picture perfect physique, the bare chest, no glasses, blue sky for eyes, the chiseled profile, wet hair attempting to curl. Even his feet were gorgeous as he padded across the deck. Bruce put his book down on his chest and bit his lip so he wouldn't be caught salivating. He glanced around quickly to see if anyone actually noticed that the god exiting the pool looked remarkably like a mostly naked Superman. Perhaps they should forego swimming from now on, Bruce speculated. How could no one see the resemblance?

Clark grabbed his towel and dropped himself onto a neighboring chaise lounge, after shaking his head, spraying water all over the place and grinning.

"If you get my book wet you die."

"Where'd you get that anyway?" Clark asked as he leaned back with his arms crossed under his head. The movement caused his pectorals to flex and expand, and with the small drops of water still clinging randomly to his skin, it took Bruce a moment to find the concentration to respond. He could lap up every one of those droplets—then what would Clark do?

"Alfred," Bruce answered slowly, closing the book and putting it aside. "He knows to pack me adequate reading material whenever I travel."

"Must be nice," Clark said with a grin, "having someone to take care of you. I'm lucky if I remember to pack clean underwear. I never have enough time, with the, you know . . ."

"I know. I couldn't do what I do without Alfred," Bruce admitted. "The demands of traveling for the company and for the foundation, the social obligations that require attention to the smallest details, and, of course, the work I do otherwise. I'm good," Bruce smirked, "but no one could manage to keep it all together without some help."

"So, Alfred is like your wife."

"I wouldn't . . . put it exactly that way."

"You know what I mean, Bruce. Alfred is your security blanket."

"I do not have a _security blanket."_

But Clark was ignoring him, and seemed to want to take the idea and run with it.

"You're like Linus from the _Peanuts,_ and Alfred is like that blanket he carries around with him everywhere. Even when Alfred's not around, he insulates you from real world concerns, allows you to live a life of artifice, where the details are handled magically and you never have to worry about being anything other than centered on yourself and your own needs."

Clark smiled in a self-satisfied way. "No wonder you're so hard to get along with. You're like the only child that never has to grow up."

"Are you finished psychoanalyzing me?" Bruce growled.

"Well, no, but—"

"Clark."

"Fine. There's no need to _glare_ at me that way, Bruce. I was just—"

"Enough."

Bruce watched Clark grab the half-filled bag of potato chips from the small table between their chairs that was left over from the lunch he had devoured earlier, before jumping in the pool. Satisfied that the Boy Scout had turned his attention to things other than his domestic situation, Bruce leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Unsurprisingly, he found a picture of Clark rising from the water burned on the back of his eyelids. This was getting ridiculous, he admitted to himself. He had planned to wait a few days before setting certain things in motion, but _he_ wasn't a man of steel. Too much proximity to Clark had had the sort of effect he had always anticipated: he felt the need to touch him, to kiss him, to keep the whole world away, to find a way to mark that impervious skin and claim Clark as his own, to be almost . . . overwhelming. He had to do something proactive. This game of _waiting_ for Clark to get a clue was beyond lunacy.

"Sure you don't want to go for a swim?"

The sound of Clark's voice caused Bruce to open his eyes, match the reality to the fantasy. Clark had finished with the chips and was in the process of smoothing his hair back from his forehead in an attempt to tame the rogue curls. Then he reached for his glasses.

"Don't," Bruce said quickly, before Clark's hand reached the black spectacles that served as his strange mask.

"Don't put on the glasses."

The good thing about Clark was that he never questioned the simple things. A normal person would have asked why – why not put on the glasses? But not Clark. Clark simply trusted that he had a good reason for the request, that it was something Bruce wanted, and since it was so easy to comply, he did so. He didn't think twice about it, which made him completely oblivious in a way, and even made him seem dumb to people who didn't know him well. Bruce knew the truth, however. Clark was oblivious, but not in the way of the unintelligent. He was simply unaware of his own magnificence. So it simply didn't occur to him that Bruce wanted unimpeded access to the most beautiful eyes in the world.

"You could take off your shirt, Bruce," Clark said, apparently in lieu of questioning Bruce's motives on the glasses. "You don't exactly look comfortable."

"I'm perfectly comfortable."

Clark was silent, thoughtful. Bruce relented, and explained.

"I don't often go around without my shirt anymore. Too many battle scars. Calls too much attention and makes for awkward conversations."

"Let me see." Clark reached for the hem of his t-shirt.

"No."

"Come on—"

"Hands off, farmboy."

"I could look through your shirt, you know."

"If you do I'll line everything I own with lead."

"I've already seen you naked, Bruce."

Bruce scoffed. "When?"

"When I put you to bed last night. I wasn't studying you or anything, but I did notice the scars."

"Then why are you harassing me about this now, if you've already seen it all?"

"Morbid curiosity? It was dark in the room and I didn't have time for a real good look last night. Plus, you were unconscious and I would have felt bad…you know." Clark blushed.

Bruce shook his head. The Boy Scout actually _blushed._

"Just wanted to see if it's that bad out here in daylight."

"It's that bad. Trust me."

Clark was quiet for a moment, considering. "So…how do you…?"

"How do I what, Clark?"

"You're the famous playboy," Clark said, "when you're with a lady, how do you explain the scars?"

"I don't. I make sure it's very dark."

"Oh."

"Despite appearances," Bruce explained in a long-suffering voice, "I don't sleep my way around Gotham. The explanations get tiresome, because what a girl can't see, she can feel. These days I tend not to get too intimate with anyone I'll have to see around town."

Clark nodded his head as if all the secrets of the universe had suddenly been revealed to him. "No wonder you've been in a bad mood."

Bruce sighed. "I'm careful, Clark, not celibate. I simply restrict my activities to one-night stands, usually when I'm on business trips. It's actually preferable. No strings."

Clark's lips compacted into a thin, determined line. "We're on the equivalent of a business trip. You're not likely to run into anyone you meet here when you get back to Gotham. We'll have to make it a point for you to have a good time."

"I don't need your help with my love life, Clark. I'm more than capable of initiating my own amorous liaisons."

"I'm simply saying that a little more sex would obviously do you good."

_"Obviously?"_

"You've been uptight, and now I see why."

_"Uptight?"_

"You should also reconsider the whole strings thing, Bruce. If you had just _one_ girl who you could trust, it would solve your problem."

"Or guy."

"What?"

"You said one girl. In fact, it could be one girl or one guy."

"You…you—"

"Swing both ways? On occasion."

_"With whom?!"_

"Clark, you don't think I'd kiss and tell."

"No…of course not. It's not… _anyone I know?"_

Bruce simply stared at the man who was now in a fit of agitation at his side. Perhaps wooing Clark wouldn't be as difficult as he had first suspected.

"It is." Clark huffed air. "I can't believe this."

"I didn't say that," Bruce remarked mildly. "You're jumping to conclusions."

"I just. I can't. I didn't _know."_

"Does it bother you?"

"No…I mean… _yes!_ It depends on who it is!"

"So you think less of me now?"

"Of course not. It's just…just tell me it's not _Wally,_ or Jason Blood, or…or…"

"Clark. I'm not going to tell you. So stop worrying about it. Close your eyes and relax. We have to go in soon to get ready for dinner."

Sighing loudly, Clark closed his eyes as instructed.

"We'll have to stop at the boutique and get you something presentable to wear," Bruce said, under his breath.

Clark's eyes opened and his head turned in Bruce's direction. "Something presentable? I brought enough clothes with me; I don't need to buy anything new."

"Clark, I've seen your wardrobe. Trust me. We need to stop at the boutique."

"That's ridiculous. I won't waste my money—"

"Yes, you will. You're not going out with me looking like a Kansas haystack. I have an image to maintain. Alfred would have my head if I let you out without you looking impeccable. As you know, I always listen to Alfred. In fact, this lovely vacation was made possible because I listen to Alfred. So, we're going to get you something appropriate to wear."

"You can be really bossy sometimes, Bruce."

"Just close your eyes, Clark."

 

15—

Shopping for men's haute couture was apparently much more intricate than shopping for mere men's _clothing._ Who would have thought that something as simple as a suit, shirt and tie could be so complicated? He had always thought that he'd been born a man so that he'd never have to worry about what he was wearing. Apparently, in the world of the rich and famous—Bruce Wayne's world—that assumption was a major _faux pas,_ a mistake of the first order.

The boutique that Bruce insisted they visit was actually in the hotel lobby, a specialty shop that he would never have noticed but for Bruce's hand on the middle of his back, pushing him in that direction and through the front door. Their entrance was met by an effete young man, meticulously dressed, who at first attempted to ignore them despite the fact that they were the only customers in the boutique; who then became supercilious when Bruce asked a few polite questions; and who then devolved into an obsequious bootlicker when a steely arm went around his shoulders and Bruce explained, in a quiet voice close to the young man's ear, that even though he was dressed in a t-shirt and swim trunks, he was more than capable of buying the entire hotel many times over.

Meanwhile, Clark was inching towards the door, hoping he could escape while Bruce was preoccupied with his intimidation tactics. There was much that he was willing to do for his friend; allowing the man to dress him up like a doll was not one of those things. But the salesperson—who had apparently been transformed into a Bat-hound in his short association with the civilian side of Gotham's Dark Knight—was now completely devoted to Bruce's cause and grabbed a hold of him before he could reach the exit. He was pulled back into the middle of the shop and the young man started taking his measurements with a tape measure that materialized in his hands like magic. Adeptly, the measure was fitted around his neck and down an arm and a leg, even around his waist, before he could blink.

His only recourse was to complain as shirts and ties were presented according to Bruce's instructions. As he fingered the price tag for one such shirt, he decided to make his objections known more forcefully. That anyone would pay sixteen hundred dollars for a shirt was beyond belief.

"Bruce, there are children starving in Africa," he said, shrugging the salesperson off of his arm with slightly more force than was necessary. "I'm not paying sixteen hundred dollars for a shirt, no matter what you say."

For a moment Bruce stilled, with a blue tie in one hand and a silver tie in the other, then turned in his direction with a raised eyebrow. "Are you intimating that I don't do enough charity work?"

"Of course not, but this is extravagant."

"Only from a certain perspective," he said as he passed the ties to the salesperson, indicating that the blue was his selection. "I have a lot of money. Sixteen hundred dollars to me is the equivalent of sixty dollars to the average person. Hence, this is not extravagant. To me."

"Well, I'm _not_ rich."

"That's not the point. This will go on my tab."

Clark let the frustration he had been feeling since Bruce had summarily decided he needed a new wardrobe, seep into his voice. "You own my apartment building, Bruce, you own the _Planet;_ I will not have you buying my _clothes!"_

Bruce crossed his arms, and his voice dropped a level. "So, this has nothing to do with world hunger. It has to do with your pride. I thought you were above such pettiness, Clark."

Clark was speechless. The hand that was resting on the bar of a display stand compressed, and the bar gave way under the pressure, the snap of metal loud in the uncomfortable silence.

"I'll…give you a minute," the salesperson said nervously as he looked back and forth between the two of them, apparently deciding that being in the middle of two extremely large and irate men who were glaring blue daggers at each other was not in his best interest. He disappeared like smoke into the back of the boutique.

"You know what?" Clark said, finding his voice. "You've finally lost it. I'm heading upstairs to get dressed, _in my own clothes._ Knock on my door when you're ready to go to dinner."

It happened so quickly that Clark didn't have a chance to counter.

A steel arm was pressed to his chest, knocking him back and against the wall and holding him there, while Bruce's dangerous gaze roamed his face, and Clark could feel the light whisper of breath on his lips.

"This is the way arguments start, Clark," Bruce said, quietly. "You're being stubborn."

Having Bruce so close was like riding a tornado—the wild rush of adrenaline that started in his chest and coiled tightly in his stomach felt exactly the same. The whole of the store seemed to have dwindled down to just the two of them, and the space between their bodies that had been reduced to inches. Clark fell back on bluster. "And you're being ridiculous!"

"You already know I won't change my mind. You have to pick your battles, Clark, especially with me. Do you really want to ruin our whole evening over this?"

Clark's response was surly. "What's wrong with the way I dress?"

Bruce retreated marginally, letting up on the arm across his chest and shifting back another few inches. "Nothing's _wrong,"_ he said mildly. "I'd simply like to see you in something else. Humor me."

"I don't run around asking you to change."

Two wolfish eyebrows went upwards incredulously. "Liar."

"Yeah…well…that's different."

"Hypocrite."

"Fine, Bruce. I give up. You win."

There was that small, lopsided twitch of the lips that served as a smile in Bruce's world, ever so slightly smug, that suggested, merely suggested, that the outcome had never really been in doubt. "Of course," Bruce said, stepping back fully. "See, was that so hard?" He turned to locate the salesperson.

"But I'm paying for my own clothing."

"That's fine," Bruce said over his shoulder, dismissively. "See, I'm willing to compromise."

"Gee, Bruce. Thanks," Clark mumbled. "Thanks for letting me spend an ungodly amount of money for your amusement."

The salesperson had returned and Bruce was multitasking, inspecting proffers and sending the young man off to pull other, seemingly more pleasing items, and talking to Clark distractedly.

"I thought you had all that licensing money," he said. "At the rate they're selling paraphernalia these days, you should be quite comfortable."

Clark sighed. The clothing on the "to buy" rack kept morphing, growing and changing. Clark could already feel the pain from the American Express card bill. "I do…I am, but I don't spend money on things like this. I'm not you."

"Try these on," Bruce said, handing him a pair of pants.

"Where?" Clark asked, looking around for the dressing room.

"Right here."

_"Here?"_

"Just pull them on over your shorts, Clark," Bruce explained in a long-suffering voice. "You only have on swim trunk, and we just have to check the length."

Clark complied, if a bit grudgingly. The salesperson had disappeared again, and it was Bruce who was checking the fall of each pant leg.

"I have to admit," Clark continued with his previous point, the point he had been trying to make before Bruce turned him into a mannequin, "I get a kick out of owning the licensing, but that's not the real reason I made the registrations," he admitted in a low voice. "I've always known that there could come a time when I'd have to discard Clark Kent. Every hour I spend playing at being a journalist is one less life I could be saving. I try to keep the big picture in mind, to balance having a life against what I feel I need to do, but every year it gets harder." He paused. Outside of the store, through the glass, a tour group was assembling. "Sometimes I think it would be better if I were Superman all the time. I made the registrations and other, similar investments so I would never have to worry about money." The people outside the shop, they looked happy, oblivious. It must be nice to be so…oblivious, Clark guessed.

"I know, I could crush coal in my hands and make diamonds. I could find jewels, treasures, anything that's buried in the earth if I just try, but I won't cross that line. I won't use my powers for my own personal aggrandizement. But using my brain isn't off limits."

The travelers had disbursed, boarding buses on their way to see the sights. Clark returned his attention to what was going on around him and found that Bruce was watching him with that intense, intuitive Bat-gaze that picked people apart.

"You're not playing at being a journalist," he said. "You're a damn fine journalist, and you contribute to the good of the world immeasurably as Clark Kent. Don't ever doubt it."

Clark smiled; he couldn't help it. "Thank you," he said, and he meant it. He had never meant anything _more._ Suddenly, nothing mattered so much as the fact that he had this time to spend with Bruce, his friend of long-standing, the one person who knew him, and knew of him, the one person who bore a similar burden, lived the same life.

The salesperson materialized, and he and Bruce engaged in an animated conversation that went completely over Clark's head.

"Dior Homme?" Bruce asked.

The young man made a _tsk_ -ing sound. "He's too broad in the chest."

"Armani, then. Torrente, perhaps. He also needs at least one pair of shoes – Weston, maybe, _maybe_ Ferragamo, but I'll have to see."

Clark tuned them out, pulled out his wallet and set his American Express card down on the counter. It certainly wouldn't hurt to have some new clothes if it was important to Bruce.

 

16—

His hotel suite was neat and quiet . . . too quiet, perhaps. It was shocking how quickly a person could acclimate to the company of another person, could find that a unique and solitary melody had become attuned to a rhythm in counterpoint; and when that other person was the bright, intricate presence of Clark Kent . . . well, it was no wonder he was feeling anxious.

After all, he lived his life the way he did for a reason, kept Clark at arm's length for many good _reasons._ Focus, determination, single-minded dedication to a promise and a mission—these were the tenets of his religion. There wasn't time enough to worship anything— _anyone_ —else.

Was he starting something with Clark that he'd be unable to finish? He had placed a limit on their time together, had set rules to satisfy his own need for the current situation to be finite. But was his reasoning…rational? Was it rational to expect _perspective_ when he wanted a thing so badly that he could taste it on the air? Were desire and need, want and lust driving his decisions?

They were friends. If Bruce had his way, if they continued along this path in this place, they would become more than friends. He had based his decision to stay with Clark on the assumption that he could satisfy his desire for the man, the hero, the savior, the survivor, the journalist, the boy from Kansas within the proscribed time limit, but the waves kept breaking, and the ocean, rising, and everything circumscribed and finite, every bent truth and rationalization was being swept out to sea like the wreckage of an old life.

And it was only day one.

He sighed, an almost imperceptible release, and walked over to the desk that was positioned by the entrance to the balcony and the laptop that he had ordered the hotel's business office to have delivered. He sat down, flipped the screen up and pressed the power button, and waited for the system to boot.

It didn't take long. Betrayal was always quick. Easy.

He logged into the computer system at Justice League headquarters through a backdoor that he had designed when building it. Once within the system, he used an identity-masking program to simulate an emergency request from Diana to the US Department of State from the Themyscaran embassy that they issue a temporary passport to a "Sidney Fairchild" that could be picked up at the local State Department office in Reno. He added a request for a pre-arranged identity verification process that didn't require him to show ancillary I.D. to complete the transaction. He put the draft request to the side of his screen while he accessed funds in an emergency bank account that even Alfred didn't know about and prepared to wire cash to the hotel in the name of Clark Kent. Then he pulled up airline schedules to determine the earliest first class flight he could catch from Reno.

A few keystrokes and it would be done.

Instead, he reached out and picked up the phone. Dialed his home number.

"Good evening, Wayne residence."

"Hello, Alfred."

"Master Bruce. What a pleasant surprise. How has your first day gone, sir?"

"Very well, Alfred…remarkably well."

"So glad to hear it, sir."

"How is Gotham? Have you checked the surveillance feeds? Anything on the police channels?"

Alfred's voice was calm and somewhat dry. "Everything is under control, sir."

"Would you tell me if it wasn't?"

Alfred huffed. "Of course, sir. I would never _lie_ to you. The fact of the matter is that the city is remarkably quiet tonight. You have only been gone a _day,_ sir."

"It feels like forever."

"I suggest we take that as a good sign, sir. You need the rest."

"But can I afford to rest, Alfred? The city is fine today, but what about tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that? Who's taking care of my city while I'm here . . . while I'm here? I know you want this for me, but I don't think I can afford—"

"Begging your pardon, sir," Alfred interrupted, "but are you suggesting that you're indispensable? That Gotham City can't survive without the Batman?"

"No, but—"

"In much the same way as you value self-reliance, sir, you cannot protect Gotham City twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year. The city has a police force, a special crimes unit, a cadre of detectives, and they deserve a chance to succeed or to fail, without having a masked crusader, unfettered by the laws by which they have to live, swoop in every time and save the day. It is the height of hubris to think that the good people of Gotham can't survive without Batman for a mere two weeks. I know you weren't raised to think that much of yourself."

Bruce was silent.

"We have a lot in common," he said, finally. "Clark is—I've never felt so—"

"No need to explain, sir," his oldest friend interrupted gently. "I have always been of the opinion that you and Master Kent were cut from the same cloth. As you are well aware, I'm often right about these things."

"That you are, Alfred," Bruce agreed, smiling slightly. "That you are." He considered his next request carefully. "Please arrange to send to the hotel my grandfather's watch, and my father's cuff links and tie clip from the family collection."

"The diamond studded set, with the Wayne family crest?"

"That's it exactly, Alfred."

"Very good, sir. It is a very fine choice, if I do say so myself. I will make the arrangements."

"Thank you, my friend. Thank you…for everything."

"My pleasure, sir. And Master Bruce, if I don't have another chance to say, have a most pleasant birthday."

"Thank you, Alfred. I suspect I shall."

Bruce hung up the phone and took a deep breath. He released it slowly and then turned back to the computer screen. He closed the missive to the State Department, canceled the wire transfer authorization, and exited the flight ticketing system. But before he logged out of the system completely, he sent a short email to his attorney, the one who handled the patent applications for Wayne Tech and who was, thus, most familiar with intellectual property law, and instructed him to acquire all rights to the name "Superman" and the trademark on the "Superman" logo—at any price. Smiling, he headed into the bathroom to start getting dressed for dinner.

 

17—

Alfred Pennyworth had a reputation to maintain, a reputation for preparedness. So, when he hung up the phone with his employer, he called an immediate meeting of the household staff. Standing purposefully in front of his assembled colleagues, Alfred made changes to the weekly food shopping, the monthly menu, including all main meals and desserts, the rotation of linen in the guest rooms, the supplies regularly stored in bathrooms and in Master Bruce's workout facility—for two rather than for one—the reading material kept on hand, and even the average temperature in select parts of the estate. When every possible need had been anticipated, and the staff prepared with their marching orders, Alfred dismissed them with a satisfied sigh before heading to the vault to acquire certain family heirlooms as instructed and arrange for their transport to Lake Tahoe.

Master Bruce was in love, and such an unusual occurrence required that changes be made to _everything._ The staff had to be briefed to discretion, the menu had to be changed, and rooms prepared for Master Clark to be ensconced at the manor, with any luck, permanently.

 

18—

Clark had to admit he looked damn good. Whoever had said that the clothes make the man hadn't been exaggerating.

Standing in front of the full-sized mirror in the master bath, Clark turned himself this way and that, appreciating how his pants broke so perfectly against the black shoes that had cost him an ungodly amount of money; the way the black jacket actually _fit_ so perfectly across his broad shoulders. He almost looked like a stranger to himself. He took a step closer to the mirror, stared at his reflection intently for a moment. He looked so much like he… _belonged_ in Bruce's world.

The reflection changed, suddenly, and Clark was caught, staring at an image that captured his eyes and stole his breath, replaced it with a helpless, incomprehensible longing. Bemused, he smiled at the reflection—of himself and of Bruce looking over his shoulder.

"Do you have to creep around _everywhere?"_ he asked Bruce, wryly. "A little warning before you appear in bathrooms would be nice. I'm beginning to think it's a habit with you."

"You look good."

Clark grinned sheepishly and turned to face his friend. "I should. It sure cost me enough."

"Forget about the money," Bruce said, as he reached out and started tying Clark's bowtie. "I told you I would pay."

"If I didn't know better, Bruce," he said as Bruce finished up with his tie, and he reached out to reciprocate, "I'd think you wanted your very own Superman doll to dress up—that is, if I didn't already know that Batman doesn't play with dolls." Clark finished with the knot. "There. You don't look half bad yourself. I suspect the ladies won't be disappointed."

"Half-bad?" Bruce sniffed disdainfully as he straightened Clark's jacket, swiping at lint here and there with a very fastidious, very un-Batman-like air.

"What an egomaniac," Clark scoffed, batting his hands away and leading him out of the bathroom and through the bedroom, and into the main section of the suite.

"It's not egomania at all," Bruce explained. "I appreciate the value of an impeccable wardrobe. The rest is just part of the façade of being a jet-setting playboy. It requires meticulous attention to detail."

"You make it sound like a job," Clark observed, as Bruce retrieved his glasses from the table and placed them gently on his face. Long fingers strayed across a cheekbone, and tucked an unruly lock of hair behind his ear. It was all so…unusually friendly—for Bruce—that the hairs on the back of Clark's neck stood up and he caught his breath.

Bruce turned with a small smile and walked over to the curtains covering the glass doors to the balcony and pulled them back, revealing the night sky. "Being a playboy is certainly a job," he said. "Just like being a journalist, the job of being a playboy has its own phenomenology, epistemology, hagiography, demonology, and even diet. The practice has its own discipline, quite distinct from the mundane. Not just anyone can pull it off."

Leave it to Bruce to turn the art of being a playboy into a science. Clark scoffed, shook his head as he retrieved his room key and tucked it in an inner jacket pocket. Then he joined Bruce who was standing by the bar with his hands in his pockets, watching Clark with a predatory edge that was almost…disconcerting. In any event, it was making him nervous. Clark decided he needed a glass of water, and busied himself pouring.

"I could show you," Bruce said slowly. "I could take you on a trip through the fabulous world of the international playboy. You're certainly dressed for it."

"Was this the idea behind the new clothes?"

"No, but since you look…so damn good…in the clothes I picked out for you, you should use this opportunity to learn something new. You’re an investigative reporter; you never know when an experience like this will come in handy. At the very least, by the end of the evening you'll have a better appreciation for how hard it is for me to keep up the façade."

Clark studied Bruce's impassive face, trying to determine if the man was somehow leading him down the garden path, setting him up for some nefarious practical joke that would be his recompense for the offense of causing the Batman of Gotham to leave his cave and have something of a good time in a wicked place called California. Bruce looked rather harmless at the moment, which was warning in itself.

"What would I have to do?" Clark asked suspiciously.

"Just follow my lead," Bruce said, waving a hand, a small motion of the wrist to illustrate his point. "A playboy lives in the theater of his legend; he must emanate charm like perfume, or a distant music. That charm should carry an open invitation to dissolve into his world—a kind of contact high—and suggest to his audience the infinite possibility of escape from the humdrum. In other words, to an important degree, he is a public service."

"A public service. Okay…" Clark agreed, as Bruce approached him slowly and resumed an absent-minded touching—straightening his collar, his tie, resting a hand on his chest, near his heart.

"Repeat after me," he said, "paradise is a fabulous suit."

"Paradise is a fabulous suit."

Bruce was still touching him, randomly, his fingers like the wind, and it was completely wrecking Clark's concentration. He was just about to tell Bruce to stop, when that low voice said, "You'll have to get used to me touching you. This is important, Clark. The essence of being a playboy is the propensity for a type of indolence colored by a desire to collect beautiful, interesting things— _people_ —and you are the most beautiful of them all."

Clark's vision seemed to blur around the edges, like he was experiencing a type of hypnosis and Bruce was the snake charmer. Immediately, the rational part of his brain recognized what Bruce was doing: he was demonstrating his theory, showing Clark how it worked in practice, the seduction of it, with himself as the subject. Knowing what was happening, however, was a far cry from controlling his every embarrassing reaction. He was blushing; he just knew it. But Bruce continued his instruction undeterred.

"It would seem odd if you were with me and I didn't touch you. For a playboy the impulse is almost irresistible—to touch, finger, lay claim to the most beautiful things in his atmosphere."

Bruce stopped suddenly, stopped the touching that a moment ago was driving a frenzy of response—his rushed heartbeat, his hurried breathing—and took a step backwards, raising a speculative eyebrow.

"Do you think you can handle it?" he asked, somewhat dubiously.

Clark took a deep breath, shook off his body's responses and steeled himself for a challenge. "Bring it on," he said slowly. "If you can dish it, I can handle it."

"Great," Bruce said, and he was actually grinning, a wide toothy grin that put much of his earlier, hidden predator on display. "Are you ready?"

Clark nodded.

Bruce draped an arm around his shoulders. The scent of his cologne was heady, intoxicating.

"Then," he said, grinning slyly, "welcome to my world, Clark."

 

19—

The knock on the door came precisely at seven o'clock, and to Lori Parks, beat reporter for the _L.A. Times,_ it was a great relief to have two gentlemen be perfectly _reliable_ for a change. She was looking forward to a fun evening, especially since she had been able to convince Meredith that it made more sense for Bruce Wayne to be her escort rather than Mere's. After all, her fellow reporter from Metropolis had been her friend for _ages,_ and although he was a great guy, it was an…unexciting prospect to be hooked up with him for the evening. Bruce Wayne, on the other hand, was another story entirely: incredibly rich, incredibly handsome, sophisticated, debonair – basically Clark's complete opposite. Lori wasn't ashamed to admit that she was hoping some sparks would fly between herself and Gotham's favorite son, and as for Meredith—well, she'd just have to make it up to her best friend some other time.

She caught Meredith's eye before walking towards the door. "Ready?" she whispered. Meredith nodded.

Lori opened the door with a smile that quickly turned into openmouthed shock.

Clark Kent was standing on the other side of the door—or at least it was a man who vaguely resembled her friend from the other coast, except that _this_ Clark looked…well, he looked _gorgeous._ Gone was the somewhat pudgy, slouching, often rumpled Clark Kent in his sensible shoes and off-the-rack suit. In his place stood a tall, broad-shouldered athlete in Armani and equally expensive shoes, with locks of brown hair curling in his eyes as if someone had just finished running their fingers through it, looking for all the world like he had just stepped off the cover of _GQ_ magazine. He was even taller than Bruce—a fact that Lori hadn't noticed earlier. Of course, before she could close her mouth, before she could gather her wits to say anything at all, Meredith had shoved past her and attached herself to Clark's arm like a leech. As Bruce took one of her own hands and kissed her fingertips, complimenting her sweetly, if a little insincerely and with a somewhat vapid air, she tried hard not to feel…disappointed…as she and Bruce followed Meredith and Clark down the hallway and to the elevator.

It was only after they had all settled in together at a booth in the hotel's grand lodge where the opening night reception for the conference was being held that Lori came to fully realize how Meredith had ended up with the better end of the deal. While Bruce Wayne was very handsome, with his suave air of the _uber_ rich and eyes like blue diamonds, and while he was even witty at times, he didn't have the insightful mind of a _reporter,_ which was becoming painfully obvious as the conversation wore on.

To add insult to injury, it seemed Bruce was much more interested in _Clark_ than he was in her. Their booth was crescent-shaped, and the guys were the middle, which hadn't seemed strange at first but as she watched the two of them talk, joke, jostle each other like they were engaged in their own private conversation that was beyond the comprehension of a mere _woman,_ she began to feel like a bookend, a satellite to their orbit around each other. She could tell from the way Meredith was drumming her fingers on the table that her best friend was feeling a little disconcerted, too.

"So, Bruce," she said, in an attempt to steer the conversation around to something more inclusive, "what did you do to Clark? I've known this small town guy for years and I don't think I've ever seen him look so…cosmopolitan."

"Bruce is a bad influence on me," Clark said, grinning widely. "He took me shopping, can you believe it? Insisted that I buy something more _presentable."_

Meredith reached out and ran a hand along the lapel of Clark's suit jacket. "Well, your friend has good taste, Clark," she remarked in a voice that was low and sultry.

"Absolutely," Bruce agreed, throwing an arm around Clark's shoulders and tugging him closer in a playful manner, effectively disengaging him from Meredith's roving touch. "I have impeccable taste. That's why I spend so much time with Clark."

Lori had to admit, Clark didn't look quite so comfortable about being manhandled by his friend. He had that sheepish, flushed-cheeks look of a guy not used to the effusiveness of an overly demonstrative companion, but after a flustered moment, Clark seemed to rise to the occasion.

"That's not what you said earlier, Bruce," Clark scoffed, while elbowing his friend in the ribs, apparently in a ticklish spot because Bruce seized up and jerked his arm away from Clark's shoulders to protect his side from further assault. "I think I heard you say something about me looking like a 'Kansas haystack' and how you wouldn't be seen out with me in public if I didn't buy a new suit."

"That was just to motivate you, Clark." Bruce reached out and patted Clark on the cheek.

Lori was surprised when the Gotham playboy then turned his full attention on her, captured her hand in a well-manicured clasp and smiled. "I didn't want our beautiful dates to be disappointed in us." His thumb was swirling lightly across the back of her hand, and the sensation made her every complaint flow out of her mind like water through a sieve. She had only a moment to notice that Clark had similarly engaged Meredith, because Bruce had asked her to dance, and the whole world receded to so much background noise as she shimmied out of the booth, took one of Bruce's hands and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. As his strong arms encircled her, she was finally completely happy with her choice for the evening . . .

. . . until she noticed that Bruce seemed determined to keep them within sight of their table, and, if Lori didn't know better, within sight of Clark and Meredith. Lori was a reporter. She could smell when something fishy was in the air. She glanced over at her friends; noticed how Clark had draped an arm around Meredith's shoulders, how he was so close to her, how she was now practically sitting in his lap; how he was whispering in her ear. More importantly, she felt an almost imperceptible tension in the man holding her when Meredith turned her head so Clark's lips went from ear to mouth, and stole a kiss from her bashful friend from Metropolis. If she hadn't already been wondering she might have missed it—the way Bruce seemed to still for a moment, two, then start up again. So she was hardly surprised when her dance partner expressed a sudden urge to return to the table soon after. However, she did her best friend a favor and made sure she got to the table first and entered the booth enclosure so that she'd be sitting on Clark's free side rather than Bruce. After all, her girlfriend deserved a fair chance.

As she settled into her new seat at the table, Bruce grinned at her wryly, reached across her to snag his glass that had been left at the table, and raised it in a small mock salute—a salute that seemed to acknowledge her machinations concerning booth placement, or so Lori figured. In any event, with everyone back at the table and with the guys across from each other rather than sitting together, the group dynamic seemed to return to something approaching normal.

"How did the two of you meet?" Meredith asked. She was still draped all over Clark, but the reporter didn't seem to mind one bit. In fact, he still had an arm around her shoulders and had a lock of her long brown hair between thumb and forefinger, twirling it absently. "I would think the two of you run in different circles."

Bruce motioned for the waiter to come clear their table. "You would be surprised at how closely our _circles_ intersect," Bruce drawled. "The _Daily Planet_ had assigned Clark to try to snag an interview with me while I was in Metropolis working on a deal with LexCorp."

"Yeah, I was supposed to snag _him_ but, instead, he snagged Lois."

Lori had forgotten all about Clark and Lois Lane, probably because Lois was one of her least favorite colleagues. "Speaking of Lois—"

"Were we?" Bruce interrupted lazily.

"Don't let him bother you, Lori," Clark said, glaring at Bruce playfully. "He knows that whenever I'm reminded of how he stole Lois away from me, I tend not to be the best company for at least…three days."

"He's worse than a wife." Bruce smiled the smile of perpetual bachelorhood. "Or so I've been told."

"It couldn't have been too hard," Lori mumbled, but at Clark's look of indignation, she was quick to explain. "No offense, Clark, but Lois doesn't even know you _exist._ If you really want to catch her attention, you had better start with wearing that suit to your next _Planet_ function."

"Enough about Lois," Bruce said, waving a hand disdainfully. "I think Clark has…greener pastures to explore. As I was saying, Clark and I met when he interviewed me for the _Daily Planet."_ Bruce's voice had taken on that affected air that was sometimes the hallmark of the rich and idle. "There was something fresh about him, something so unlike the ordinary Gothamites I'm used to dealing with, something almost…alien. I knew if I could study him, learn the secrets of his simple existence, I could conquer the world."

Clark was coughing and had to take a sip of his water to soothe his throat. When he finished, he agreed with his friend. "At first, I didn't know what to think of Bruce Wayne, billionaire industrialist wanting to engage me, a simple reporter, in something other than a professional capacity. I was skeptical, but he was…very persistent, scary even. He seemed so sure that we would have tons in common. How could I resist? He even extended me an open invitation to visit Gotham as his guest at any time, which I thought was very…chummy of him."

"What's it like living in Gotham with that awful Batman?" Meredith asked pantomiming a shudder.

"Not so bad," Bruce responded with a shrug. "It's not like he makes the social rounds."

"Yeah," Clark mumbled, "it's not like Batman is trying to be the hero around town."

"Have you met Batman, Clark? I know you interview Superman all the time. I wouldn't be surprised if the two of them were associates."

"What?" Meredith exclaimed. "Superman wouldn't be caught dead with that _Batman._ Batman is nothing more than a vigilante. A psychotic vigilante at that."

"I don't know, Mere," Clark said slowly. "I think Superman would have a lot in common with a hero like Batman. He might even admire Batman's determination, his resourcefulness, his intellect."

Lori leaned across the table. "He told you that?"

Clark was silent for a moment. "This is off the record, you understand," he said, lowering his voice, "but, actually, he did. I was interviewing Superman for that piece that ran in _Newsweek_ —you remember the one, Lori—and the subject of other superheroes came up. I asked him point blank what he thought about Batman. Of course, he wouldn't say anything on the record because he didn't want his comments to be construed as tacit approval for ordinary citizens to circumvent established law enforcement channels on a lark, but Superman did say that he considered Batman to be the one hero he most admired, the one whom he trusted the most."

Though Clark was responding to her question, Lori noticed that he only had eyes for his friend Bruce. Bruce had sprawled backwards in his seat, with both arms extended along the back edge of the booth, looking relaxed but also somehow coiled and expectant. The two men were looking at each other, gazes locked, as if no one else in the room existed. _What is it with these two?_ Lori wondered with something approaching frustration.

Meanwhile, Clark was still explaining. "Superman said that it was easy for him to be a hero with all of his powers and abilities, but if he ever lost his powers, he hoped he could be a hero like the Batman—though he said he doubted he could pull it off." Clark chuckled, somewhat self-consciously. "He made me promise not to ever tell Batman if I should meet him, but Superman said that he considered Batman a friend, his best friend."

"That's…alarming," Meredith said. "I don't know whether to believe you or not, Clark."

Clark's eyebrows went up. "I wouldn't _lie_ about a thing like that, Mere."

Meredith leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Okay, I believe you. It's just so hard to think of Superman and _Batman_ as friends." She started extricating herself from Clark. "Bathroom?"

Lori nodded, and Bruce exited the booth to allow her egress. As she and Meredith made their way through the crowd and across the room, Lori glanced back once to see that Bruce had re-seated himself right next to Clark. The two of them looked like a reflection, each of the other, with their impeccable suits and dark, perfect good looks. From her angle it even looked like the playboy had his hand somewhere in the vicinity of Clark's thigh, while Clark's face was flushed red.

She shook her head. Perhaps Bruce Wayne was one of those _metrosexuals_ that were all the rage these days...

 

20—

Clark felt a heady sort of disconnect from reality that had slowly built into a hard knot of tension localized in the pit of his stomach—or, actually, somewhat lower, if he were to be truthful—as he attempted to navigate the rapids between Meredith and Bruce. Despite the provincial manner he often adopted for the purposes of his Clark Kent façade, he wasn't inexperienced or prudish or close-minded. He'd had more than his fair share of encounters with women—beautiful women—quite a few of which had been with women of the exotic, alien persuasion. He had also been objectified, abused and obsessed over by women on and off-world more times than he cared to count. However, nothing in his life had prepared him to spend the evening as the prized possession of Bruce Wayne, playboy. And Meredith—she had become more than a mere date. She had morphed into the only reasonable outlet for his frustration.

Which was why he had kept one hand on her at all times. The feel of her skin, her hair, the scent of her perfume were something of a balm to his senses—senses that devolved into a state of frenzied agitation every time Bruce casually threw an arm around his shoulders, jokingly mussed his hair, patted his cheek, leaned in close to his ear. Clark knew this was all part of Bruce's master plan to "broaden" his horizons, indoctrinate him to a playboy's world of idle hedonism, but Clark couldn't help but think that Bruce was getting some sort of sadistic pleasure out of his every embarrassed reaction.

Now, Meredith had abandoned him. He gazed after the gentle curves of his date's retreating form as she and Lori headed to the restroom with a sort of desperate longing. Bruce had taken the opportunity to reestablish their former proximity, and was now seated so close that their thighs touched. Clark knew he was blushing furiously but he just couldn't seem to control the heat that flooded his cheeks in undulating waves.

"Clark," Bruce said, close to his ear. "What do you think of her?"

"Who?"

"Your date. You know, the pretty brunette? She seems to have taken a shine to you, and it seems you're not…adverse…to the attention." Bruce's hand dropped below the lip of the table and lightly brushed Clark's thigh; a lazy thumb ghosted over his zipper and along the hard length hidden behind, as if to emphasize a point.

Clark ducked his head in a panic, licked his lips to scare up moisture in a mouth that had suddenly become as dry as a desert. "Bruce—" he said, and his voice was nothing but a hoarse whisper. He tried again, catching Bruce's laughing eyes with his own. He knew that his own eyes were filled with the pulsing red of his heat vision. "Bruce, don't you think you're taking this a bit far?"

"Depends," Bruce responded as he retrieved his drink and sat back in the booth, putting a more reasonable distance between them and crossing his legs.

"On what?" he asked as he took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. He wished Meredith would return already. What was taking them so long?

"On your reaction, of course," Bruce explained as if he were talking to a dullard. "I would be going too far only if I didn't think you were enjoying the attention. As long as we're both having fun, there are no superficial limits, and nothing I could do here, in public, would be going far enough." Bruce sipped at his drink. "So which is it?"

Clark wasn't ashamed to admit he was confused. "Which is what?"

"Am I going too far or not far enough?"

Clark blinked at his friend who was watching him, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "I don't—"

But just then he was saved by the arrival of Lori and Meredith, returned from their joint expedition to the ladies' room.

"Hey," he said, once again gathering Meredith in his arms and breathing her perfume with a sigh of relief. "What took you guys so long?" He realized that Bruce was still _watching_ him, as if he were well aware that Clark had escaped answering his question and couldn't escape forever. "Let's dance," he said, taking his date by the hand and shepherding her out of the booth and onto the dance floor. He thought he could spend the rest of the evening like this, dancing, with his date in his arms. With her body flush against his own, it was much easier to return everything to its proper perspective.

 

21—

The evening was winding down, the convention crowd had thinned noticeably, the waiters were discreetly cleaning tables, the band was playing its final set...and Bruce Wayne was sitting in his seat, absently drumming his fingers on the table, holding a vapid, distracted conversation with his date while trying to pinpoint exactly where his plan had gone astray. Sometime after he had awakened in a bed that was not his own, he had decided that he could afford a certain type of liaison with Clark—he had even started to look forward to it, to expect that this whole idea of a vacation was merely a perverse sort of foreplay—but Clark was so…goddamn _clueless,_ and his pride, his pride had balked at making the first move, a move that Clark could hold over his head for the rest of their lives. So he had embarked on a seduction of sorts, a slow assault on the senses. He had been confident of immediate success. After all, he was well aware of his own assets and was expert at using them to his every advantage—not to mention that he had left _subtlety_ out by the pool somewhere. He had expected Clark to fall in line, to seize what was being offered. Instead, the object of all his plans was on the other side of the room, partially hidden from view by a large potted plant, with a beautiful woman pressed up against a wall, while he was sitting here with some girl he found pretty and pleasant but hardly worth his time.

The whole evening was simply not going as anticipated, and Clark was really beginning to piss him off.

"Are you planning to set them on fire with your laser vision?"

"I'm...sorry?" _Laser vision?_ Bruce blinked, trying to recapture the flow of the conversation.

"Clark, Meredith. You've been glaring red death in their direction for the last twenty minutes," Lori said. "Don't you think you should give it a break?"

Her voice was barely civil, and Bruce was somewhat taken aback at the clear signs of hostility. He knew he hadn't been the most attentive of escorts, but he'd thought he had at least kept up appearances. Most women would have been satisfied, but if the distaste on her face, her disgusted frown, was any indication, Lori was not one of those women.

"I think it's time to go," she said, taking a final gulp of her drink and grabbing her purse, before exiting the booth in a flurry of motion. "I'm sure you agree."

Silently, Bruce followed Lori across the room to where Clark and Meredith were standing: she, with her back against the wall, Clark leaning over her, one hand splayed at the side of her head. His lips were close to her ear, whispering something that made her giggle. Meredith noticed their approach first and said something to Clark that made him straighten up and turn with a huge, happy grin on his face. Bruce felt his temper flare.

"Clark," he snapped before anyone could say anything, but Clark seemed oblivious to the fact that he was not _happy,_ that, in fact, he was seriously considering putting the Man of Steel through the nearest wall. Perhaps _then_ Clark would stop grinning like a loon. "Let's go."

Clark nodded then moved to his side and draped an arm around his shoulders companionably. "So, where to next?"

He elbowed Clark in the ribs so viciously that he almost broke his elbow, but the impact did cause Clark to remove the offending arm in confusion.

"Uh..." Clark began, hesitantly, blue eyes wide. "Is there something wrong, Bruce?"

"No," Bruce growled in a low voice, pitched for Clark's ears alone. "What could be _wrong?"_ He turned towards the ladies with an approximation of his usual playboy manner, and in a louder, lighter voice said, "I'm a little bit beat with all the traveling I did today. I don't think I'm up for bar hopping tonight."

"Me, neither," Meredith agreed quickly, walking over to Clark's side with a smile. "Perhaps a nightcap in your suite, Clark?" she said. "I'd really love to see what the bigger rooms look like."

"Sounds great," Clark said, taking her by the hand and leading her in the direction of the double-door exit to the banquet hall.

Bruce was left standing with a hostile brunette who was glaring daggers at him. "I guess we're going to have a nightcap," he said, uncomfortably.

"I guess so," she answered, in a curt tone. Then she turned on her heel and stalked after her quickly disappearing friends.

Bruce sighed. This situation was not going according to plan _at all._

The evening only got worse when they exited the elevator on the proper floor, and stepped into the quiet hallway that led to their adjoining suites. The two women were walking a ways ahead, talking in low voices. Bruce could tell, even without hearing the words, that Meredith was pleading, and Lori was not happy. Clark was at his side, though, talking a mile a minute, making it hard to conduct a proper assessment.

"This was a great idea, Bruce, going out tonight."

"Right."

"It feels like it's been ages since I've had such a good time."

Bruce grunted.

"Even the new suit was a great choice—in retrospect."

"So glad it worked for you," Bruce said under his breath, with no small amount of sarcasm.

Now they were all gathered in front of Clark's room door, and Bruce was thankfully spared Clark's inane prattling. The end of the evening was finally in sight, and all Bruce wanted to do was hustle everyone into Clark's room, pour a couple of drinks and encourage their female friends to seek their own room as quickly as possible. He and Clark needed to have a talk, and they needed privacy to do so. If he managed the situation properly, he could be showing the girls the door in eighteen, perhaps twenty-three minutes, tops.

But there was a flurry of activity going on around him. Clark was smiling, somewhat sheepishly, as he kissed Lori on the cheek, said some few words, turned and used his keycard to open the door. Meredith walked past him into the room, and Clark followed, just far enough to be inside the doorway but blocking further access. "I'll see you in the morning, Bruce," he said, and closed the door.

Bruce stood staring at the closed door in stunned silence.

"Missed that one, huh?" Lori said, voice biting.

He turned, tried to school his face to curious indifference.

Lori scoffed. "Right." She started walking in the direction of the only other suite door on this wing of the floor. "This is your room, right?"

He nodded.

"I think you owe me a nightcap."

Retrieving his keycard from his jacket pocket and opening the door had never been such a travail. Bruce was sure he was going to regret letting a woman who was obviously _not happy_ into his room.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said as they entered the suite. His voice was pitched pleasantly, but it was hard— _so hard_ —to keep up the façade when all he wanted to do was kill. Kill Clark.

"This is a lovely suite." Lori's voice dripped honey. "But I guess it's only the best for Bruce Wayne." She walked over to the sofa and took a seat in a corner, leaning back with an arm propped up casually on the armrest and legs crossed, watching him.

Bruce took off his jacket and threw it over a chair. "What can I get you?" he asked, walking over to the bar.

"Scotch, neat."

Bruce raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. He started pouring, while the silence stretched.

"I know your type," Lori said conversationally, into the quiet.

Bruce looked up from his task. "Excuse me?" He took the glasses and walked across the room, passed a drink to Lori then retreated to stand by the fireplace, sipping his own drink.

"Your _type,"_ Lori continued. "Bored, rich, always looking for a challenge, unhappy, jaded. Manipulative."

This was not a conversation he wanted to have. "Are you trying to tell me something?" he asked, chuckling, trying to affect a tolerant amusement that he did not feel.

"The type that's always looking to _corrupt,_ to take anything that comes into your sphere of influence that's whole, focused, happy, innocent and see if you can't twist it into a reflection of yourself—just to prove that the world is as messed up as you think it is. Is this all some sort of game to you? Me, Clark?"

Bruce coughed lightly. This conversation was going nowhere. He needed to figure out the best way to end it.

"Did you think you were being subtle?" Lori continued, with a disdainful lift of an eyebrow, an accusing tilt of her glass. "I see the way you look at him, the way you can't _stop_ looking at him, touching him. You don't want me. You want him. I was just convenient cover tonight."

"Lori," Bruce started in on the conciliation, in hopes of placating and facilitating an end to the madness, "I'm not sure why you're so upset. I had a great time tonight, though, obviously, I was extremely poor company. Trust me, it had nothing to do with you. I have a lot on my mind right now. I thought that getting out tonight might help me relax but clearly..." he chuckled in a self-deprecating manner, "I was mistaken. I think sleep is the best remedy for my disposition. Perhaps I can make this evening up to you some other time...?" _When pigs fly,_ a vicious voice in the back of his mind snarled, but he kept his face schooled to perfect contrition, and hoped some higher being would decide to be kind.

It was just his luck that Lori seemed not to have heard a word of his apology, and, moreover, appeared disinclined to remove her rump from his couch anytime soon.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, with a small grin that mocked him. "You think you can convince Clark that he's something he's not. That with a little bit of flirting, a little bit of inappropriate touching you can confuse him; cause a guy who's as straight as an arrow to _experiment._ You're good, but you're not that good, _Mr. Wayne._ Clark thinks of you as a friend, nothing more. That's why he's in there with Meredith."

The façade slipped. He couldn't help it. "And you know him so _well,"_ he drawled, with a smirk and a tone that could freeze her drink in her glass.

"Better than you!" Lori said, slamming her glass down on the coffee table and jumping to her feet.

"Really?"

"He's a _good_ man," she said, pointing her finger at Bruce, accusingly, "a simple guy. There's no artifice, no hurtfulness in his heart. Stop trying to manipulate him. He deserves better than to be some sort of novelty conquest in a game played by some bored rich guy. Even if that guy is the infamous _Bruce Wayne."_ She took a deep breath, lowered her voice. "Why do you want to hurt him simply for your own amusement? You can't possibly think some temporary tryst with you—and we both know it would be temporary—would be good for him personally or professionally."

Bruce was livid. "I don't think this is any of your business."

"Wrong again, _Mr. Wayne._ I'm Clark's _friend,_ a real friend. I care about him; that makes it my business. And you trying to use _me_ as part of your big seduction scheme—well, that makes it my business, too."

She shook her head, waved a hand in his direction dismissively. "I've had enough of your _company,"_ she said, walking towards the door. Before she exited, however, she turned, and added over her shoulder, "I hope Meredith rocks his world," she said, coldly, "and that you find you're never any closer to him than you are right now, at this moment. _Jerk."_

Finally, she left, slamming the door in her wake.

Bruce let out a tired sigh. _Well, that was peachy,_ he said to himself.

He walked over to the door and threw the deadbolt, then cut the lights. In the soothing darkness that enveloped the room, Bruce kicked off his shoes, untied his tie and let it fall, and walked slowly towards the door that separated his suite from Clark's. He reached out, ran the fingertips of a hand over the smooth surface, rested his palm on the doorknob; listened intently for any small, indiscreet sound, before taking a seat on the floor, back against the offending room divider. He sipped his drink, asked himself the same questions he had been asking himself for years: What was it about Clark that inspired such blind loyalty in people who barely knew him, and such fierce loyalty in people who thought they knew him well? What was it about him that made them flock to him, love him, put him on a pedestal? Why did everyone think they deserved a piece of him, the one who was so far above them all?

They. _Everyone._ Who was he fooling? He'd like to think he could never really _understand_ what was so compelling about Superman—about _Clark_ —but truthfully, he was as starstruck as the rest of them. Even though he knew, logically, that Superman could be a danger to the whole world, and no matter how many times the Man of Steel was brainwashed, mind controlled, made to attack the very people and places he swore to protect, Bruce could never put aside his faith in the man, his friend, the trust he had that somehow Clark would always find a way to make it right in the end. He had Clark on a pedestal so high— It was the reason he knew he could never kill Clark, no matter what he had promised when Clark had handed him the Kryptonite ring. It was the reason he knew he'd always find another way. No one should be forced to kill his hero.

Then he heard it—the sound of a chuckle, deep, happy, and the answering giggle, sweet, feminine. The sound released him, allowed him to get up from the floor, set his empty glass on the counter and head to the bathroom to change for bed. It had been a long day, a day like a roller coaster, and he was beyond tired.

The bottom line was this: Lori was right. He had transgressed. Clark deserved someone bright and brave. Brave enough to risk everything. Brave enough to make it last. Clark deserved so much more than what he had thought to offer. Good thing nothing irrevocable had happened. Good thing Clark was so goddamn clueless.

 

22—

Meredith was smart, beautiful, everything a man would look for in a companion, but every time he kissed her, he thought of Bruce. They were standing on the balcony in his room, pressed together, and all he could think about was Bruce. Clark knew what she wanted, what she expected him to want...but all he _wanted_ was Bruce.

The sky was a blanket of stars, waiting, watching. He kissed her neck, and the stars over her shoulder were just like the translucent blue of Bruce's eyes, just so. He moved a hand through her hair and the feel of it was like the night, dark, heavy, reminding him of cape, of shadow, of artifice like silk and the smooth air of mystery. When he closed his eyes he did not see _her;_ he saw flashes, sharp, brilliant images: Bruce by the pool; Bruce in his arms, head on his chest as they flew through the night sky across a continent; the way Bruce looked when he had stripped him and tucked him into bed; the way he slept, looking so dangerously _young,_ so unguarded; sitting across from him at the breakfast table, eyes intent, always intent; the way Bruce gazed over his shoulder in the bathroom, in the mirror, so very fine, such a perfect reflection. In the distance, he heard the haunting strains of a music that consisted of a deep voice, laced with dry amusement, and the rare sound of laughter.

He...was infatuated with his best friend. The knowledge came to him like a sudden sense of _déjà vu,_ of things experienced but until now unknown. He had always wanted _more_ from Bruce, more attention, more time, more simplicity, more smiling, more kindness. He had always wanted to be further _inside_ the man's barriers. He had to admit it to himself: he wanted to be the gatekeeper, the one they all had to go through if they needed to get to the Batman of Gotham, the one everyone acknowledged knew Bruce best; he wanted to be the only one Bruce would listen to, the only one who could reason with him. He wanted to be the only one who could save him, who could keep him safe, even from himself. He wanted. _He wanted._ It was obsessive. It wasn't healthy. He had never _wanted_ another man before. Now he wanted no one—no man, no woman—as much as he wanted Bruce.

He pulled away from Meredith. "Let's go inside," he said. "It's getting cold." He wouldn't use her as a substitute. It wasn't proper, and hardly fair.

"Actually," she said agreeably, with a smile, "I was quite warm, but going inside is good, too."

He settled an arm around her waist, and led her over to the sofa. He lit a fire, made some hot chocolate and chatted with her about work, about the conference, about Lori and Bruce and what the two of them could possibly be doing in the other room, and he refused to satisfy his aching curiosity to look. He sat next to her, and allowed her to lean on him as they talked and laughed and watched the fire burn down. At some point their interaction had changed from the sexual flirtation of earlier in the evening to a comfortably lazy companionship. Meredith seemed to recognize the shift in dynamics and was regretful, but not bitter. They had a lot in common, and were having a great time; it just wasn't destined to go any further.

It must have been about two in the morning when he decided he should escort her back to her own room. He did so, kissing her deeply, thankfully, outside of the room she shared with Lori. He couldn't restrain himself this time—he used his x-ray vision to check to see if Lori was inside. She was in there, asleep in her own bed, and the sense of relief was overwhelming.

Back in his room, he changed into sweats and a t-shirt, then retreated to the balcony, the best place in the entire suite, and stood in the night chill studying the stars, by himself this time but not alone. Bruce was all around him. He needed to think about their relationship, and, for him, the best way to do so was among the clouds. It was a simple matter to launch himself into the air.

 _What to do?_ Despite what some people might think, he wasn't stupid. In retrospect, looking at Bruce's behavior throughout the day, his shocking revelation by the pool, it was possible—just _possible_ —that Bruce wouldn't be adverse to some sort of sexual _fling_ in the spirit of being on _vacation,_ or simply to see if he could make Clark suffer, in some emotionally _perverse_ way, for the indignity of dragging him to this place. Even the thought of such a possibility sent a ripple of desire through his whole body that was only exacerbated by the wind that lashed across the exposed areas of his skin as he flew skyward at a moderate velocity. The problem, of course, was that he was a terrible liar, and an even worse cheat. He held on too tightly—it had always been his greatest failing in relationships. He had a fear that had been with him as long as he could remember, from when he was a small child, more a terror, of losing the people he loved the most, of being alone in the world, abandoned, left behind; or maybe it was a fear of going on forever, while everything he loved passed away in its season, went where he could not follow, while he remained, different, impervious, always alone.

He knew it was probable that he could leave this place in two weeks with everything he had ever thought to want from Bruce—a stronger friendship, insight into his mind, his way of thinking, memories that were held only by the two of them. It would be the height of folly to ask for anything more.

_Could he ask for something more?_

Only if he could put every new, intimate feeling that might develop aside at the end of two weeks. It was the unavoidable stipulation. As well as he knew his own failings, his propensity to attachment, he knew Bruce. The man ran from relationships, every single time. He would never tolerate a teammate with whom he had a romantic entanglement of any sort. The mission took precedence over everything and everyone. Clark knew that the first time Bruce had to choose, he would lose— _irrevocably._ Bruce would drain their relationship back down to the dregs. He would be left with so much less than what he could have if he simply exercised a little restraint.

So, as he reached the proper altitude, as he turned on his back and floated, looking up at the crescent moon, he asked himself the only relevant question: what was he willing to lose for a temporary dance amongst the clouds? Was he willing to lose it all? _Was he willing to lose it all?_

The answer was simple: he couldn't lose Bruce. He loved him. As a friend, as a brother, as a teammate. He loved him too much to risk being cut out of his life, to risk not being close enough to protect him.

He would do what he did best and protect them both, because there could be no Superman without Batman, and if he needed to seem dumb as a doorknob, dumb as nails, if he needed to ignore every outrageous, flirtatious overture and betray his own body to protect their friendship, he would do so. Nothing was as important as keeping Bruce close. Nothing.

Satisfied, he smiled. He flipped, and headed back in the direction of the hotel with a spirit much lighter than when he had set out. He had thirteen days of Bruce's undivided attention to look forward to, thirteen days of fun with the brother of his soul. It would be pointless to dwell on what was beyond his grasp when what had been placed in his hands was beyond priceless.


	3. Day Two: The Quest for Obligatory Birthday Sex

**Day Two: The Quest for Obligatory Birthday Sex**

23—

There was some sort of godawful light shining on his face. Bruce grabbed a pillow and put it over his head, wanting nothing more than to return to his cloud-filled dreams, to feel the wind on his face, to sink into warmth, to vault the sky. Alfred must have forgotten to close the curtains....

 _Alfred._

Slowly, he removed the pillow from his head. Knowing what he would find and not wanting to find it, he cracked open an eye, confirmed that, _yes,_ he was still in Tahoe, in the bed of too many pillows, in his suite. It was morning, his head hurt, and, he realized, it was his goddamn birthday.

The television was on in the main room, and he knew it hadn't been on when he had gone to bed. From inside the bedroom, it sounded like the morning news. Bruce threw back the covers with a sigh, got out of bed, secured his black silk robe that was on the nearby chair and put in on. Then he turned in the direction of the main room, dreading what he would find.

He found Clark on his sofa, all slouching six feet and more of him, watching his television, with the newspaper spread out, his feet propped up on the small table and a cup of coffee in one hand.

"What are you doing in here?" Bruce snapped. He wasn't in the mood to be gracious.

"Good morning, Bruce," Clark replied in a voice of long-suffering. "How did you sleep? Good, I hope. Oh, me? I slept marvelously. Thanks for asking."

"I'm sure you did," Bruce growled.

Clark put the newspaper down and looked at Bruce askance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Where's the coffee?"

"I had them set up breakfast on the balcony. Thought we could eat up here before heading out to practice."

Bruce stalked that way. He simply couldn't handle Clark without having a cup of coffee first. Didn't the man understand anything about _boundaries?_ About perhaps calling first before taking up residence in another man's room? It was six in the morning, for crissakes. From inside the suite, he heard Clark call out, "Oh, and happy birthday, Bat- _grouch."_ Bruce grunted an acknowledgement while preparing himself a cup of black coffee, drinking it in three gulps and pouring himself another. Thus prepared, he re-entered the suite and took a seat on the couch next to Clark, who had returned to reading the paper.

"Clark, don't you think it's a little early in the morning?"

Clark eyed him over the top of the newspaper. "Not...really. Why? Did I wake you up?"

"No, but perhaps you should be, I don't know," his voice dripped sarcasm, "hanging out in your own suite, maybe?"

Clark smiled, and Bruce's hand tightened around his cup. "Not a morning person, Bruce?" he asked, with a light touch of amusement coloring his voice. "You can go back to bed, you know. I'll wait."

"I don't want to go back to bed!" Bruce set his cup down on the table with a little more force than was necessary. "I don't want you to wait! I want you to _get out_ so I can get up and get dressed in peace!"

Clark removed his feet from the table with a thud, slowly bent at the waist to place his cup on the table, and when he straightened, Bruce caught the wash of hurt in his wide eyes. This was getting ridiculous. "Fine," he said grudgingly. "You can stay." The smile returned immediately, like the sun from behind the clouds, and it was something of a relief to see, Bruce hated to admit. "But _no talking._ I think I had too much to drink last night," he grumbled. Clark pantomimed zipping his lips, reached out for the remote and turned the television to mute. Bruce sat back on the couch in the blissful silence and tried to organize his mental plan for the day around the pounding in his head, while Clark resumed reading the paper.

"Good Lord, Bruce!"

Bruce jumped. "What?"

"What did you do to Lori?"

"What did I—? Nothing. I did nothing to your friend. Why?"

Clark folded the section of the newspaper he was reading in a square and smacked him in the chest with it. "I didn't think I needed to tell you not to piss off a journalist."

Bruce picked up the paper from where it had fallen in his lap and started reading the editorial in the section that covered entertainment, gossip, leisure and travel. It read: _Reflections on a Life Wasted, or Life Lessons Learned During One Night on the Arm of One of the World's Richest Playboys._ Bruce groaned. At least she didn't use his name.

"What happened?" Clark asked.

Bruce ignored him, finished reading the article and then threw it on the table. She hadn't used his name but anyone with any sense at all could guess at the identity of _Gotham's favorite son,_ the _industrialist playboy,_ the _handsome man with air ducts for brains._

"You might as well just tell me what happened."

He needed to call his publicist. The article had mentioned Tahoe, and it wouldn't take the media long to realize that he was holed up here if he didn't engage in some damage control.

Clark stood up. "Fine. If you won't tell me, I'll simply ask Lori."

Bruce sighed. "Sit." He paused to gather his thoughts. He didn't really want to get into this with Clark, but it appeared unavoidable. He was certain Lori wouldn't pull any punches. "She accused me of wanting to corrupt you," he explained, staring at the television.

"Corrupt me?"

"Yes." He turned to face Clark.

"Corrupt me how?"

"She thought I was hitting on you, that I was trying to seduce you into an inappropriate liaison. She was concerned for your _virtue_ and didn't want the big bad playboy to run roughshod over your heart and your reputation."

Clark was silent, goggle-eyed. "You're...joking."

"No," Bruce said dryly. "I'm not."

"She wouldn't—"

"She did."

Clark's face was sort of scrunched up around the forehead, intimating that he was either very confused or trying to think very hard, Bruce couldn't tell which. It was...sort of cute, in any event. He sighed again, a small, frustrated exhalation of breath. It was simply too early in the morning for this.

"You did explain to her that we're just friends, right?"

"No, Clark," Bruce sat back on the couch, voice dripping sarcasm, "I admitted everything. _Of course,_ I tried to explain. She refused to listen to reason. She lit into me, called me a jerk and stormed out."

"You can be something of a jerk sometimes, Bruce."

Bruce shook his head, scowling. "Fine, take her side. In fact, why don't you go spend the day harassing them, with your girlfriend _Meredith,_ if I'm such a jerk? I could just go home. Solve everyone's _problem."_

Clark was across the couch and at his elbow in an instant. "Come on, Bruce. You know I was only joking. There's no side to take. I'm on _your_ side. Always will be. And you couldn't get rid of me now if you tried. I have a two-week promise from you, and I plan to hold you to it."

The Boy Scout was so earnest—Bruce had to admit it was hard to stay mad at him, especially when he was apologizing for something that wasn't even his fault.

"I'm really sorry things didn't work out the way we expected with Lori," Clark continued. "I don't know what could've gotten into her." He paused. "You weren't hitting on me...were you? Of course not," he said in a rush, "and even if you were, it's none of her business."

His head was pounding mercilessly, and Bruce knew it was imprudent to start this, but he really wanted to know, so he asked, even though he was certain it was a _really bad idea._ "What would you have done if I _were_ hitting on you, Clark?"

Clark shrugged. "But you weren't. I'm sure it looked strange to Lori but you were only trying to prove a point, right?"

"Of course," Bruce agreed slowly, nodding his head. "But you didn't answer my question: what if I were hitting on you?"

"But you weren't, so the question's moot." Clark paused. "Unless you were...?"

"No," Bruce corrected quickly, "I wasn't hitting on you. I'm asking you to _imagine_ that I was. Is there such a thing as an imagination roaming around inside of that thick skull of yours somewhere?"

"There's no need to be insulting," Clark huffed. "Fine. You want to know what I would do if you were hitting on me. Does it have to be you, or can it be any random guy?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Does it make a difference?"

"Of course it makes a difference," Clark said, as if he weren't the only incredibly dense person in the room.

"Why? How? Could you please just answer my question?"

"You said please!" Clark hands went to his cheeks in mock surprise. "See, I knew this vacation would do you good."

"Clark, if you don't—"

"Bruce...relax," he interrupted, sitting back. "I'll answer your question...what was the question, exactly? You've managed to confuse me."

Bruce gritted his teeth. "Your friend Lori accused me of hitting on you. _I wasn't hitting on you._ But if I _were_ hitting on you, what would you do? Your _friend_ seemed to think she knew how you'd react, and I'm curious to know if she's right."

"You're curious?" Clark frowned. "This is in the nature of you testing a theory, then?"

"Exactly."

"Okay...then...it would be you hitting on me, not just some random guy?"

 _"Yes."_

"Well...I'd...have to think you were joking."

Bruce raised a hand to his forehead, rubbing absently. "Assume that I'm not joking."

Clark nodded. "Okay, you're serious. If you were hitting on me and were serious about it," he shrugged, "I guess it would be fine."

"Fine."

"Yeah, I guess I'd be fine with it, I suppose."

"You suppose. You'd be fine with it _you suppose."_

"Bruce," Clark leaned forward inquiringly, raised his hands apologetically to emphasize his point, "what do you want me to say? You've latched onto a ridiculous scenario and want me to imagine you were hitting on me last night, _but you weren't,_ and to tell you the truth, I really can't imagine you were. I'm sorry Lori upset you. I had a great time last night. Nothing you did bothered me at all. We were both on the same page, so I don't know what's gotten you so worked up. If Lori implied that I'm some sort of provincial and you're worried that I might be judgmental about your lifestyle based upon our discussion yesterday, I'm not. I have absolutely nothing against same-sex relationships." Clark's explanation ended on a conciliatory note.

"Bruce." No answer.

"Bruce?"

Bruce pulled his gaze from his contemplation of the mute figures moving across the television set, and studied Clark like one might study a bug under a microscope. "How is it possible for one person to be so dense?" he asked. "Have you ever thought of asking the wizard for a brain, Clark?"

"Here we go with the insults again!" Clark threw himself back on the couch in disgust. "What's your problem now? Why don't you try to be clear and specific for a change?"

Bruce glared at his _problem._ "My problem—" he began, but stopped. This was ridiculous. He simply grabbed Clark by the arm and tugged him forward, buried the other hand in his hair and kissed him. He ignored the way everything seemed to slow down, the way reality splintered; he ignored the thunder in his head, the way his senses seemed to combine in a wild rush like the crash of a waterfall; he deepened the kiss, and felt no small amount of satisfaction when Clark responded. He made it last as long as possible, until he could no longer ignore his need for air. Then he slowly broke away, and fell back on his end of the sofa.

"Is that clear and specific enough for you?"

Clark's eyes were hooded, his face impassive. It wasn't quite the response that Bruce had expected, and the thought that Lori might have been right suddenly presented itself as an alarming possibility.

"Why did you do that?" Clark was motionless, his voice hesitant.

Bruce tried to keep it light. If he had made a mistake he wanted to spare them both as much embarrassment as possible. "If I walked up to you and kissed you," he said casually, with an air of studied indifference, as if he had been merely teaching a lesson, "what would you do?"

Clark was frowning, when, Bruce thought, he should have been smiling. "Obviously," he said in a measured tone, "I would kiss you back. Then I would escort you up to the Tower and have J'onn run a few tests to see what was wrong with you. Unless, like now, I thought you were trying to prove some obscure point, then I'd do whatever you needed me to do so you could figure out what was bothering you."

Bruce really wasn't in the mood for humor, and the ice daggers of his stare must have made his position obvious.

"Fine," Clark snapped, "I would be surprised, and flattered, but I would suspect, no doubt correctly, that something was wrong, or that you were simply using me to prove a point, and I'd have a hard time taking you seriously. Satisfied?"

"Perfectly."

Clark got up, grabbed his newspaper and his cup and headed towards the door to his room. He stopped, with his hand on the knob. "I think you're asking the wrong question, Bruce," he said, but he didn't turn around. "What would _you_ do if you walked up to me and kissed me? Anything I could think to do would be wholly determined by what I know of your ultimate goals."

"You're somewhat smarter than you seem sometimes," Bruce grumbled, in a low voice, not expecting Clark to respond, but the comment caused him to turn around.

"So...?" he said expectantly.

"So, what?"

"So, you kissed me. What will you do now?"

Bruce waved a hand dismissively. "That was just to prove a point."

Clark nodded, and turned, and opened the door to his room. "Well, then, you have your answer," he said. "If you _were_ hitting on me, I'd think you were just trying to prove a point and I would ignore it." His voice had slowly returned to its normal sunny tone and as he closed the door he was smiling. "Get dressed," he said, "and knock on the door when you're ready. I want to go running before we start the lessons." He paused. "And Bruce, I know you're a detective, but I hope we're not going to have to go through this sort of theoretical exercise every morning. Especially not before we get a chance to eat."

He closed the door, and Bruce felt the cold knot of tension in his stomach slowly release.

 

24—

Clark closed the door separating the adjoining suites, and actually turned the lock, ensuring that Bruce could not enter his room unannounced. Breathing deeply, he allowed his knees to fold and took a seat on the floor, using every mental technique he had ever learned to get his heartbeat under control, to cool the rush of heat that was the blood in his veins, to stop the room from spinning. There was something wrong. He felt as if he'd just overdosed on yellow sunlight; felt a swelling, burning sensation right below the surface of his skin that in the past had been the precursor of a new, disorienting power manifesting, like his heat or x-ray vision.

 _What was happening to him?_

There was nothing more frightening to Clark than the feeling that his body was out of control, that he could open his eyes and incinerate the first unfortunate person that wandered into his line of sight, that he'd hug a friend and find that he had inadvertently broken bones, that he'd open his mouth to speak and unintentionally freeze the skin off of someone's face. It was his worst nightmare, and to feel this way, to feel like a capsized boat, over one kiss—even a kiss from Bruce Wayne—was unprecedented, unexpected and downright panic inducing.

It didn't help that he _remembered._ His photographic memory was more than a one-dimensional picture in his mind's eye. His memory was a collage of his heightened senses, existing in perfect replication of the actual event, a bouquet of time that he could see, smell, taste, hear, feel, as if it were all still happening. Thus, he could live in the very moment when Bruce had touched his hair, his face, had pulled him close and pressed firm lips to his own. Etched on his soul in stark relief were those exact sensations—when Gotham's most eligible playboy had parted his lips and let his tongue wander, the way Bruce tasted, so delicious, the sleepy smell of his skin, the way his eyelashes brushed against cheeks that felt the gentle fluttering like wings—it was all there, inside of him, ready to be examined, studied from every angle, dissected with precision; re-lived a million times.

He very much wished Bruce had never gone so far. How was he supposed to forget being kissed by the most remarkable person in the world? How was he supposed to forget the most memorable, the most singular kiss he had ever experienced?

Sighing, Clark opened his eyes slowly, attempting to ascertain if the room had decided to stop moving. He still felt...so strange, and he couldn't get the picture of how Bruce looked in that black silk robe, hair rumpled from sleep, eyes stormy, stalking from the bedroom, every inch the Bat but without the costume, out of his head. It was going to be a long thirteen days if this was the best he could do to control a desire he had already decided was best left unexplored. Certainly, Bruce had done much to sabotage his resolve, had managed to blow up the dam with one negligible touch of lips, a random slip of tongue, that probably meant nothing more to him than an interesting science experiment. If Bruce could just be more _meaningful_ in his actions—Clark didn't expect him to offer forever, but he did need more than a ticking bomb armed to explode in two weeks time.

He threw himself on the sofa and picked up the phone. He could use some advice from someone he knew would be up at six thirty in the morning. He dialed his home number in Smallville.

His mother's bright, pleasant voice was like a balm to his senses.

"Hello."

"Hi, Ma."

"Clark! This is a surprise!" The obvious pleasure in her voice made Clark smile.

"Just thought I'd call to see how you and Pa were doing. He out working?"

"Of course. You know your father. Up with the roosters."

"Same old Pa," Clark said, fondly.

"Well, you don't expect him to change at his age, do you, Clark?"

Clark grinned. "I guess not, but it would be a nice surprise to call one morning and have you say that he's sleeping in."

"When pigs fly, dear," she said with mock solemnity, "when pigs fly."

They had a good chuckle over his father's habits, and Clark could feel the tension leaving his body with the advent of joy, the return of his bodily functions to normal, and hadn't it always been this way? His parents had been his only emotional support for his entire life, the only two people who knew his every secret, the two people who had been at his side during the good...and the bad. The only ones who loved him unconditionally, who had loved him even more when he had spent days crying his eyes out at each new manifestation of a power that made him so different, that set him forever apart. He acknowledged that most people distanced themselves from their parents as they got older, but Clark would never do such a thing, could never do it. Even though he was grown, he needed the love and support of his parents more than ever. There were so few people in his life who loved _him,_ not the superhero, not the reporter, not the last survivor of a dead planet, just _him,_ the often-changing amalgamation of the three.

"Where are you calling from, dear?" his mother asked. "I thought you said you would be away at a conference this weekend."

"I am. I'm in California."

"How's it going?"

"Oh, fine. Fine. Since I'm only here as a guest lecturer, I have a lot of free time."

"That's good, dear. You deserve a vacation. You work so hard. I know how important your work is but you have to make time to live a normal life."

Hesitantly, Clark elaborated, "I'm trying, Ma. I even...brought a friend with me, a friend from work. We're going to stay longer than the three days I had originally planned for the conference. That's one of the reasons I'm calling—to let you know that I'll be here for the next two weeks, if you should need me...." He stumbled to a halt.

"Two weeks, Clark?" His mother's voice was incredulous. "I don't think you've ever taken so much time away. Who is this friend?" she asked, and Clark could see her quiet smile in his mind as if she were standing right in front of him. "I'll have to send cookies to the _Planet_ with my sincere appreciation."

"Um...it isn’t a colleague from the _Planet,_ Ma. Actually, it's a friend from my other line of work. A good friend."

"Well, I didn't realize that there was a social component to being a superhero, but I'm glad there is. Makes me feel much better about your safety to know that you have friends around you. Will your father and I get to meet this person?"

"It's kind of complicated, Ma," he said with a small sigh. "You see—"

"Is this a girlfriend you're talking about, Clark? There's really no need to be so bashful. I _am_ your mother."

"Girlfriend . . . no . . . not exactly . . . I mean, no." Clark could feel the flush rising to his cheeks, which was absolutely ridiculous because he was only talking to his mother and he had nothing at all to be embarrassed about. "That's not it."

"Then what's the problem, dear?" His mother's voice was heavy with concern.

Clark paused, tried to gather his thoughts. "Don't laugh," he said, "but I have a hypothetical question." His mother hummed her consent and he continued, "If you had to choose between spending only one day with Pa as husband and wife or spending a lifetime as just his friend, which would you pick? I mean," Clark tried to explain quickly, "if you knew that one day after you married him, he'd be gone, but if you hadn't married him the two of you could be good friends for many years...."

"I think I know what you mean, " his mother said, thoughtfully. "You want to know whether I think one day of intimacy with your father as his wife, as his life-mate, is worth more or less than a lifetime of friendship?"

Clark breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes."

"Clark," she said, with a fond chuckle, "of course I would take the one day. I love your father. I feel like I've loved him my entire life. I wouldn't sacrifice knowing this love, even if only for a day, for anything in the world."

"But—"

"But nothing, dear," his mother interrupted him gently. "I might rail at the injustice, I might wish for more, but I would never choose to miss even the smallest amount of time we have together, the connection that can only be experienced when you know someone intimately. Friendship is wonderful; it's priceless, but it's only a component of the love I feel for your father."

"I just..."

"Love requires courage, dear. Nothing is promised to us, especially not the future. Take every opportunity to be happy, to know love. Don't let the fear that something might not last forever stop you from experiencing every ounce of joy you can, even if there might be hurt waiting for you at the end of the day. The pain will fade with time, but the memory of the joy will last you a lifetime."

"How do you always know the right thing to say?" he wondered, smiling.

"I'm your mother, dear," she said loftily, as if that explained everything.

Clark laughed.

"So, are you going to tell me about this friend? The one you're keeping at arm's length for fear of being hurt?"

"Ma!" Clark complained.

"Oh, come now, Clark. I know you didn't call at six thirty in the morning just to get my views on sex—"

"Ma!"

His mother continued unperturbed. "You must want my approval of this friend who you're spending so much time with, this friend that has you all in knots. You'll have to tell me something specific if you want me to say anything other than that I trust your judgment."

Clark thought, perhaps, it wasn't the best time to get into this—he wasn't exactly prepared—but if he couldn't talk to his mother . . .

He coughed lightly, embarrassed. "Well..." he said, "um...what if this friend was sort of...unusual...I mean, what if this person isn't what you'd expect?"

"What I'd expect?" his mother huffed. "The only expectation I have is for you to be happy."

"So..." he continued hesitantly, "...if this person was a purple-skinned alien with three eyes and four arms, you wouldn't have a problem with it?"

"My only question would be if you're happy, dear."

Clark took it a step further. "And if this person was, I don't know, four feet tall with a huge overbite and was a reformed super-villain or something, you wouldn't be mad?"

"Clark," his mother _tsk_ -ed, "when have I ever gotten mad at you for following your heart? So you're in love with a very small, purple-skinned alien girl who used to be a super-villain? When are you bringing her around for dinner? Does she eat Earth food? This is very important, dear. I don't want to be unprepared."

"Ma," Clark mumbled. "It's not a girl."

"Speak up, Clark. I can't understand you when you mumble."

"I said, "Clark cleared his throat, "my friend is not a girl."

"Asexual," his mother said, musingly. "I've heard about aliens like that. Don't worry, Clark, we'll make it work."

Clark sighed inaudibly. "No, Ma, my friend is not asexual, or an alien, or purple-skinned." Clark paused. "He's a guy. From Gotham City."

His mother was silent for a moment, just long enough for Clark's quick thinking to spiral through every possible scenario where his parents stopped loving him because of his romantic preferences, but he shouldn't have worried; his mother was simply gathering breath for an admonishment.

"Well, why didn't you just _say_ so, dear?" she exclaimed, with no small amount of exasperation. "When will you bring him by for dinner? Does he like chicken? He's not one of those vegetarians, is he? You know how your father feels about those types."

Clark blinked, somewhat dazed. "No, Ma, he's not a vegetarian." Was it possible that it could be this... _easy?_

His mother was still speaking, but Clark had already fallen back into the memory of strong hands that held him close, of a heartbeat that had quickened in time to his own, of the sharp intake of breath that had indicated, as loud as words, that Bruce hadn't wanted their kiss to end.

"That's wonderful, dear," he heard his mother say, with half an ear for the conversation. "So you talk to him and pick a date—sometime after your vacation, of course—and I'll make my famous chicken and biscuits. We'll all have a nice chat over dinner and get to know one another."

Perhaps his mother was right and he should find joy in what was being offered, in the moment, and not worry about the future. Even if Bruce kept him at arms length for the rest of their lives, perhaps he could live a lifetime on two weeks of memories as vivid as that kiss.

"Bruce," Clark said, in a low voice, once his mother stopped talking.

"What's that, dear?"

Clark smiled and spoke up. "His name is Bruce." He turned quickly and looked through the wall and into the connecting suite, locating Bruce in the bathroom, running water for a shower. He needed to get off the phone...right now. There was something he had to do before he changed his mind.

"I have to go, Ma," he said, hurriedly, the excitement building in his stomach, flushing his skin with heat. "I love you and I'll call you in a few days. Give my love to Pa." He hung up the phone, and used his super speed—a reverberating swoosh of motion that sent him in the direction of the adjoining room door—and the courage instilled in him through his talk with his mother to seek joy where he expected to find it: in the arms of his best friend.

 

25—

His choices washed over him like a deluge of dirty water, soaked his hair, his face, sluiced down his back, pooled at his feet like mud. Bruce braced himself against the wall of the shower and banged his head against the smooth peach marble, banged it again, only harder this time. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

After having made his decision, after deciding to back off—to have kissed Clark like a love-struck puppy, then to have him respond as if it meant nothing. _Nothing._ To have the Boy Scout walk out of the room and shut the door as if he couldn't get away fast enough.

 _What had he been thinking?_

There was no way he could stay at this resort with Clark for two weeks now. He'd make his excuses, come up with an emergency in Gotham or at WayneTech that needed his immediate attention. Time and distance—lots of time and plenty of distance—would allow him to save face. He would deal with Alfred once he was home.

The water—it was hot, too hot, really, even for a proper scalding, but the steam it generated rose in thick clouds, obscuring everything in a haze of white. He ducked his head, let the jets of water that pounded him from two directions drown the memory of thunder, the frisson of lightning, the storm clouds as they parted and he stood in the sun and realized that he'd never anywhere seen a sky so blue.

He closed his eyes, wished fervently that he had the day to do over again. A lost gust of wind disturbed the fog of his remembrance, his regret, startling his eyes open as he was impacted by presence, by the feel of another body, hands on his hips, turning him, turning him to face a mirage of hunger and desire that had suddenly been converted into dizzying, dazzling reality.

 _"Clark."_ He knew what it felt like to be a tree struck by lightning, split in half, with the hidden pulp of its insides so appallingly placed on display. Clark. _Clark._

Pressed him to the wall, in a wash of hot water that splashed everywhere as their bodies collided like planets, as Clark captured his mouth, kissing, sucking, licking up the water that poured down his face in rivulets, murmuring his name, raggedly. _Bruce. Bruce._ The rush of it was like the pounding of the rapids through the river of his veins. An emotion, incredibly strong, yet indecipherable, seemed to go through him as well as over him; it stole the breath from his lungs.

"I lied," Clark whispered into his neck, groaning. "I need to change my answer." He pulled back just a little, far enough to gaze at Bruce with the earnest blue of eyes framed by long, wet lashes. "If you kissed me I'd be speechless and too stupid to say the right thing." Again, he demonstrated, tongue flicking out to map the circumference of Bruce's lips, to place light kisses on a mouth that opened at his insistent request. _"Bruce,"_ he breathed, softly. "I'd be worried that I'd mess everything up, and I wouldn't know what to do."

As Bruce struggled to regain his equilibrium, to seem unaffected by this miraculous turn of events, to draw air enough to breathe, he noticed the feel of Clark's hands as they roamed—light touches to his cheek, his neck, the curve of his shoulder, his waist, the length of this thigh. Until this moment, every sensation had been focused on the lips that had devoured his mouth so desperately—now, his whole body woke to the realization that _Clark,_ naked, godlike, was pressed against his body like a second skin, how their bodies fit together so perfectly, with erotically wet indentures and crevices that begged to be laved by tongue, explored by lips. It made it hard for him to think straight. "What's changed?" he asked in a low voice.

"I decided not to worry," Clark said, with eyes that promised, with lips curved in a slight smile that branded its mark upon his heart. "I decided to have some fun."

That was all Bruce needed to hear. He let his amazement, his trepidation, his previous mortification and uncertainty, fall away from him like the husk of some transitional state. He reached out, wrapped his arms around the perfectly formed manifestation of his every sexual fantasy, and _took_ what he had previously only wished for; _claimed_ what he had tried so hard to entice.

Bruce wrapped his naked body around Clark's as water rained down on them in a slick sheet, erections trapped and straining in the between. Dark, devouring pleasure ate at him as their mouths locked and tongues entwined. Wet bodies slid against each other and hands grabbed and kneaded until all that existed were sensations, shuddering, sweet sensations. Clark had a hand in his hair, grabbing, trying to bring him closer, trying to suck the soul out of his mouth. Clark was demanding, fiercer than any lover he'd previously known. He took everything from him, with each breathless kiss. It went on forever, and was over much too soon. Clark pulled back. The gentle blue of his eyes shone like diamonds through the steam.

Bruce thought of this wholly unexpected development, to have Clark, here, in his shower, and couldn't help asking, in a dry voice that was rough with desire, "What if I said I really was only kidding, about earlier?" He leaned in, placed a kiss on the corner of a mouth made for kissing. "You can't just show up in a person's shower all uninvited, Clark."

Clark pushed him back, until his backside made contact with the wall, and took control of their embrace, pressing his body into hard flesh. "If you were just being a flirt," he said, around kisses, "then it's too bad for you. You shouldn't start something you can't finish, Bruce. As for my invite—" A hand snaked between them and started a rhythmic kneading of his cock, for one moment, two, "well, this seems pretty inviting to me." Then the hand withdrew.

"Oh, I can finish," Bruce growled, in a low, dangerous voice. "Do that again and I'll finish you right here, right now."

Clark chuckled, but it was unlike any other chuckle Bruce had ever heard from his friend; it was slow, sultry, accompanied by the drum of water on the marble tile of the shower stall. "Promises. Promises," Clark whispered in his ear. "But before we go any further, we need to talk."

"The last thing we need to do is talk." Bruce emphasized his point by drinking deeply of Clark's mouth, his throat, drinking his way down his chest, his belly.

"Bruce," Clark groaned. _"Dammit, Bruce._ You're making this hard."

"Good," he said, with no small amount of satisfaction at seeing the Man of Steel so hazy-eyed. He placed Clark's hand over his cock. "You're making _this_ hard, too. Why should I be the only one to suffer?"

Clark groaned again, then exhaled breath harshly and pulled away, put some small distance between their bodies. "If I don't leave now, we'll never get out of this room, and as tempting as that sounds, we have plans for today and I have a workshop this afternoon that I can't blow off." Clark reached out, turned the water faucets to cold. The shock of the temperature change was more than a little bracing. "Besides, I don't want to rush...especially since Batman..." Clark reached out a hand, skimmed a finger over his cheekbone, "...has the hots..." the finger made its way down his chin and chest, his stomach, and came to rest in his belly button, "...for Superman—obviously a world-ending occurrence—I want time enough to enjoy it."

"Wait a minute. _You're_ the one in _my_ shower—"

Clark smirked. "You know you've been hitting on me all day, Bruce."

Bruce scowled. "Keep it up, Kent. You know I was only humoring you. This..." he reached out, grabbed Clark by the nap of the neck and kissed him speechless, before letting him go triumphantly, "...is obviously all your idea."

"Right," Clark blinked. Sighed. "Whatever." Clark kissed him lightly, really a peck on the lips, and took a step backwards. "You." Clark leaned over and kissed him again, another peck, with another step backwards. "Say."

"Meet me downstairs in the lobby after you get dressed. We'll go for a run." Then he was gone, with the same gust of wind that had heralded his appearance.

Bruce was alone, blinking in the dissipating steam that had turned the entire bathroom into a room in the clouds. He turned the water even colder and started the process of cooling down the ardor that had him rock hard and frustrated, but even in the midst of his frustration, he was smiling. What had that poet said? _How very strange the world can be, when what seems so far from you is most your own._

 

26—

"I see you've ditched your _friend."_ The slight emphasis on the last word made Lori's opinion of Bruce quite clear.

Clark set his fork down and used a napkin to wipe his mouth. His fellow reporter took his lack of an immediate response as an invitation to sit. She placed her water bottle on the table and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. Clark studied her sourly. She was obviously on her way to the hotel gym, as she was dressed in the standard matching workout ensemble. She had managed to disturb his blissful contemplation of Bruce and his many glorious assets, and the myriad ways he planned to enjoy those assets, and Clark wasn't particularly happy about it.

"Morning, Lori," he said, in a neutral tone. "Hitting the gym?"

She nodded as she reached out and snatched a decorative strawberry from his plate of mostly-eaten French toast, eggs and sausage. "I want to get my workout in before the morning session. Unlike you, my paper actually expects me to attend the entire conference."

Clark shrugged apologetically. "I'm a lecturer."

"Still, it's not fair. This crap is so boring." She grinned. "Present company excepted, of course. I'm sure _your_ workshops are simply delightful."

Clark returned her smile, though he was still somewhat annoyed with her. "I like to think so. I have a session on youth media and mentoring programs this afternoon and an ethics session tomorrow on media influence during times of war. You should stop by." Clark took a sip of his orange juice.

"Maybe," she said, noncommittally. "Will your _friend_ be there?"

Clark set his glass down, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, bristling at her rudeness. "What do you have against Bruce, Lori?" he asked, with a frown. "Don’t you think you were a little hard on him in that article? How did you get it published so quickly anyway?"

Looking at her nails with an affected air of nonchalance, Lori smirked. "It's amazing what a little motivation can do for a girl. While you were playing kissy-face with Mere, I was typing my little heart out. Then I had to call in a favor."

"But why? Why go through so much trouble to embarrass my friend?"

"I didn't name names," she said, indignantly. "And he's not your friend, Clark."

"You're right," Clark agreed quickly. "He's not just a friend. He's like a member of my family."

"Oh, Clark," Lori said, in a tone that implied she felt sorry for him, a tone that made Clark see red, it was so patronizing. "People like him aren't _friends_ with people like you."

"Listen, Lori," Clark tried hard to maintain a hold on his temper, "I'm sure you mean well, but you don't know what you're talking about. Bruce is a fine person, better than you'll ever know. If you don't trust him, you'll have to trust me. I _can_ pick my own friends."

"Good to know I managed to make such a lasting impression."

"Bruce—" Having had his attention fixated on Lori and rebutting her ridiculous statements, Clark was startled to see that Bruce had managed to approach the table unnoticed. His dry interjection, so sudden, so unexpected, caused Clark's hand to jerk as he reached for his water glass, spilling it—into Lori's lap. She jumped up from the table, sputtering.

"Damn...I'm sorry, Lori." Clark picked up a napkin and made to help her wipe up the water. "Let me—"

"Don't," she said, glaring—at Bruce, strangely enough, as if it were all his fault. Bruce merely smiled at her, with a perfect façade of playboy vacuity. "Now I have to go change."

"Go on, then," Bruce said mildly. "Don't let us keep you."

Lori scowled. "I wasn't talking to _you,"_ she said, turning her back. "Clark, I'll see you later."

"Uh...okay," Clark agreed, as Lori stalked away from the table. Clark transferred his gaze to Bruce, who was regarding him with a raised eyebrow. The man looked...marvelous, in a black and yellow jogging suit with not a hair out of place. It was hard to believe that just thirty minutes ago...well, it was just hard to believe. In fact, Clark wouldn't have been surprised if he woke up at any moment and found himself under the mind control of dream-master Dr. Destiny, or some such. To have Bruce standing in front of him, devouring him with eyes that said, _I haven't forgotten where we left off, Clark. Soon. Soon,_ was indistinguishable from fantasy.

"Trying to defend my honor, Clark?" Bruce smirked. "You didn't have to douse her with water."

"I didn't do it on purpose," Clark objected, wiping his hands and getting up from the table that was now something of a mess. He dropped some money on a dry spot, eyeing his unfinished breakfast regretfully.

"You were eating again?" Bruce remarked, as they both turned in the direction of the rear entrance to the hotel lobby and stared weaving their way between tables. The rear entrance led to the grounds behind the buildings, and the mountains beyond. Bruce placed a hand at the juncture between Clark's shoulder blades and steered him towards the glass doors. Even through the material of his blue Kansas sweatshirt, the touch sent a frisson of lust through Clark's body. The hand kept them in close proximity, and was a subtle reminder of their new level of intimacy.

"Again?" Clark was indignant. "If you remember, you were too busy putting your tongue in my mouth to allow me to eat the breakfast that I had ordered for us—" They exited the building, side-by-side. It was still early. The surrounding area was deserted for as far as the eye could see.

"So food is more important to you than our first kiss?" Bruce interrupted, with mock concern and a play on feminine dramatics that had his voice at a higher register and him flinging a wrist in the air to emphasize his point. It was often hard to remember that Bruce was quite the actor.

Clark shrugged his arm away and punched his shoulder lightly then knelt in the grass to fix the laces on his running shoes. The grass was damp with early morning dew. "Of course not," he said. "I'm just saying—"

"That you were hungry, I know."

Bruce started stretching. He was remarkably...flexible...for such a big guy, Clark noticed absently. Clark dropped to the grass, watched as Bruce contorted himself into one position after another.

"You better hope your metabolism never slows down, Clark. I don't think you'd look quite so good fat."

Clark plucked a piece of grass, put it in his mouth. "So you think I look good?" he teased.

Bruce was bent over one leg. He looked over at Clark archly. "Fishing for compliments, farmboy?" He recoiled into an upright position. "Tell you what, Clark. We could always head back to the room." His voice was light, dry, with a small smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. "I could show you exactly what I think of you." He held out a hand and pulled Clark to his feet, but he didn't let go as expected. He reeled Clark in close and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Actions speak louder than words...and all that."

"You talk a good game, Bruce."

"I can do a lot more than talk," Bruce warned him lightly, releasing his hand. "You’re the one so intent upon _talking."_

Clark figured Bruce would want to start a discussion of his frustrating retreat from the bathroom earlier after such a comment, and braced himself to launch into an explanation of Kryptonian physiology and the problems inherent in having amorous liaisons when his powers were so dangerous, but Bruce merely dropped the subject, seemingly content to wait.

"Where are we going?"

"That way," Clark responded, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the mountains.

"That way," Bruce deadpanned. "Don't you think it might be a good idea to know where we're going?"

Clark shrugged. "Why?"

"Why do you think, Clark? So we don't get lost."

"We can't get lost. I can always just fly up to figure out the right direction."

Bruce was shaking his head. "That's—" He sighed. "Why don't we come to an agreement about your powers, Clark? I'm here without my costume, my tools, my resources. I think it's only fair for you to be equally handicapped. You _can_ function without using your powers...?"

"Sure, but—"

"I don't mean anything you can't control—your invulnerability, for instance—but your speed, strength, the flying and the x-ray vision—you can manage not to _use_ them?

"Yes, but—"

"Then we have an agreement. No flitting up like a bird to check our direction. We do this _my_ way."

Clark glared at him. "Fine." He turned and started jogging in the general direction of the sun. After a moment, Bruce was at his side. "You keep track of our direction _your way._ I wouldn't _dream_ of interfering."

Bruce nodded his head, satisfied.

They fell easily into a matching stride that ate up the distance and a companionable repartee that touched on a wide range of subjects, from Alfred's management of the Wayne estate, to Clark's upcoming presentation, to the newest technological developments at WayneTech, to what Bruce called Clark's unhealthy fascination with Lex Luthor. "You go too easy on him, Clark," Bruce said, after they had been running for a good hour at a clip. "He can't be saved. At least, not in the way you hope." Bruce dismissed his objections, instead choosing to remind him that Luthor wanted him dead, and was likely the only one with enough resources to even come close to making that desire a reality.

"It's just that . . ." Clark began, but then stopped. He wanted to explain his feelings about Lex, but he was hesitant to do so, especially to Bruce who had a tendency to trivialize sentimentality. They had been running for quite a while now, and Clark noticed, surreptitiously, that Bruce's breathing was becoming slightly more labored. He figured it was a good time to stop, and when next they reached a clearing, he threw himself to the ground in the sunlight in the middle of a meadow. Bruce didn't object, and after a few minutes spent warming down, he took a seat on the ground at Clark's side.

Clark glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. "We used to be friends," he admitted, talking about Lex.

"I highly doubt that."

"I was the best man at his first wedding."

Bruce swiveled his body and stared at Clark in amazement. "That's…interesting. I'm sure there's quite a story behind that turn of events. I wasn't aware the two of you had ever been that…close."

"We...were. A long time ago."

There was silence, broken only by the call of birds in the distance.

"What happened? Does he know your identity?" Bruce shook his head. "He can't know, unless—"

"He doesn't know," Clark said slowly. "Not anymore."

"But he did know, at one point? You told him, or did he find out on his own?"

"He knew. I told him."

Bruce was still, as still as he would be in the middle of a surveillance mission, unearthing evidence that painted a picture not to his liking. Clark was reluctant to continue, but found no reasonable way to stop.

Stiffly, Bruce said, "You and he—were close. How close?"

Clark stared at Bruce quizzically, through the morning sunlight that lit his dark features and tried to disburse the thundercloud of his expression without success. "We were close—" then it dawned on him, "but not like _that,_ Bruce. We were just friends." He watched as Bruce's face cleared slowly, then he leaned in to steal a kiss, that quickly turned into an embrace, that morphed into an impassioned sprawl in the grass, until they broke for air, with Bruce straddling him, holding him down, but only lightly.

"Good," he said, serious, eyes hawk-intense. "Stay away from Lex Luthor."

"I try. But..." Clark paused. "He's obsessed with me. It's...pathological, maniacal." Clark closed his eyes, remembered other days, younger, simpler days when he had a friend who trusted him, who believed in him, until Bruce kissed his eyes open. "Somewhere, deep down, I know he knows what I've done to him," Clark whispered. "He has every right to hate me. I stole a piece of his past."

"How?"

"He was always trying to access Kryptonian technology. He managed to steal something that was meant for me. It affected his mind. I had to use the Fortress computer to save him, but when I did..." He paused. It was harder to admit than he expected. "I made it so that he wouldn't remember my identity, or his relationship with me at all really." Clark stumbled to a halt, looking up at another friend who leaned over him, gazed at him with understanding, and something close to sympathy.

"I know what Luthor is capable of," Bruce said. "I suspect you didn't have a choice."

Clark pushed Bruce off his stomach, and the Dark Knight fell to the grass at his side. "There's always a choice," he said quietly, as they lay on their backs and watched the clouds go by. "All we ever really lack is perspective." Clark paused. "I was very young."

"Mistakes of youth. You can't change the past, Clark.

Silence stretched. "I know he's changed but I keep hoping—I can't give up on him. He was my friend. I don't have so very many of them that I can afford to throw them away." Clark levered himself up and climbed over Bruce until he was the one sitting on his friend's midsection, leaning over him in the same way Bruce had immobilized him earlier, and took a minute away from his regret over Lex to kiss the Dark Knight breathless.

"Clark, you do realize how dangerous he is to you?" Bruce asked, when they stopped for air. "He's a man with unlimited resources and an unreasonable obsession. Nostalgia is hardly the best emotional response."

Clark shrugged noncommittally. Bruce was right, but he couldn't help the way he felt. He doubted he could ever really separate his memory of Lex from the present day reality.

Bruce struggled to sit up. Clark decided to let him.

"You only need one," Bruce remarked, as he pulled his knees to his chest.

"One what?"

"Friend. You only need one good friend. The rest is...irrelevant."

Clark smiled. Bruce was right. It was quality not quantity that mattered, and now that he had Bruce's friendship—well, it was more than enough.

"Bruce," Clark said, glancing over at him seriously. "Thanks."

"For?"

"For lending a sympathetic ear. I never…told anyone about my relationship with Lex." He sighed. "Who in the world would understand?

The silence that fell was easy, companionable. A while went by with the two of them just sitting next to each other, watching a hawk in the distance as it spiraled downward, searching.

"Bruce," Clark said, in a low voice. "Do me a favor?" When Bruce nodded, he continued, "Don't add what I just told you to a file somewhere. I know it's hard to resist, but . . ."

Bruce turned in his direction fully. There was something in his eyes that Clark couldn't identify. A spark of anger, maybe? Calculation? Regret? "What happens here stays here, Clark," he said, turning away.

Clark nodded slowly, thankful for the reminder of their agreement, but somewhat unsettled that Bruce planned to stick to it. "What happens here stays here."

 

27—

"So, are you ready to head back?"

In fact, Bruce wasn't ready for the return run to the hotel. He was surprisingly content, lying on his back in the grass, in the bright morning sunshine, in the presence of mountains, watching the clouds go by. He had to admit, in Gotham City, he rarely noticed the sky, especially not in the mornings. His schedule dictated that he miss most mornings—up all night fighting crime, meeting social obligations. His reputation dictated that he not be seen around the office before eleven, and a good thing, too. Even though he slept less than the average person, he did need at least four hours on most nights, and if his employees were to have the expectation that he'd make it into the office by nine, it would interfere with his work. The ability to enjoy early mornings such as this were a regretful sacrifice on the altar of his mission.

Then there was Clark—frustrating, surprising, puzzling Clark. The Clark who smiled at every opportunity and who had shown up in his shower like a beam of sunlight, chasing away shadows. The Clark who had kissed him as if it were the only thing he ever wanted to do, and whose eyes promised fidelity and much more of the same.

He would never have expected the Boy Scout's company to be so comfortable, so compatible with his every mood. It had always been about the aggression between them, the antagonism, the focus on their differences in personality and crime fighting techniques. A mere twenty-four hours was all it had taken for them to reach a plateau, a parallel place where nothing seemed as important as their similitude. With Clark lying in the grass, comfortingly at his side, Bruce felt he could spend the whole day just like this, and never want for anything more.

"Am I ready to head back?" he mused. "Not really."

Clark rolled onto his side, looked down at him in amusement. "We could practice out here," he said. "There's no need to go back to the hotel when it's so nice out."

"Your lecture is at one."

Clark's voice was dry. "I know. We'll be back in time."

Nodding, Bruce got to his feet in one smooth movement, and waited for Clark to do the same. He unzipped his jacket and tossed it on the ground, revealing a black t-shirt, and watched appreciatively as Clark pulled his sweatshirt over his head to reveal a similar short-sleeved t-shirt in white. Like mirrored reflections, they started with the exercises Bruce had been taught yesterday.

"You're good," Clark acknowledged, as he realized that Bruce seemed to have perfected the first level forms practically overnight.

Bruce smirked. "I know."

"You got a chance to practice?" Clark asked, as he executed a graceful pivot and waited for Bruce to copy the movement.

"I slept on it."

"And that helped you how...?"

"One of the things I mastered while I was honing my skills in Asia was the proper application of my will to physical and mental obstacles. The mind is a tool of unlimited potential, Clark. There are mental exercises, meditations you can do prior to going to sleep, that carry over into your dream state and make it easier for you to absorb and retain information, a sort of self-hypnosis." Bruce paused to allow Clark to correct the position of his hand. "I go to sleep seeing what I need to be able to do in my mind. I wake up with a better understanding."

Clark grinned. "Then I wouldn't want to bore you, Bruce," he said. "Let's take this up a notch."

He pulled off his t-shirt and advanced a few feet away, until he was standing in a swath of sunlight. "Watch my form, but also watch my muscles," he said, turning and taking up a position, "watch the ebb and flow of tension and energy, the proper use of _shreearr,_ the control of the inner meridians to allow in the life force of the universe. It's the way to achieve the theta state."

Bruce did as instructed, merely watched as Clark seemingly made love to the morning, all grace and fluid movement, leaps and pivots, sweeping arabesques, with his face raised to the sky like some sort of sun-god fallen to Earth. He _could_ actually see the coiled tension, the energy as it was directed throughout the body. When Clark's movements seemed to settle into a solitary stance, arms above the head, Bruce approached, and placed his hands on warm pectorals, followed the flow of energy over shoulder blades and up arms with his fingertips, mapping the correct celestial consonance by feel as it seemed to flow through Clark's body, to be better able to remember the breadth and depth of it when he had to mimic the lesson. Clark's eyes were closed, but at his light, exploratory touch, they opened, no longer blue as the spring sky but black, with the stars of the universe swirling, reflected within. Those eyes were like a magnet, pulling at him. Bruce could do nothing but respond.

Time lost all meaning as their lips met. In the hologram of his mind Bruce experienced himself moving through a cosmos that had been reduced—or perhaps expanded—to patterns of light. He heard his own celestial consonance, the aching dissonance, the universal music that vibrated through his cells, attune itself to an outside vibration, a harmony that moved alongside and then in and through him, until all sense of individuality felt like a mask. As if everything he had ever believed himself to be was a mere pretense.

Euphoria allowed him to sweep confusion and denial away, as he swooped through the heavens, enjoying a sort of respite from the grotesque burden of being human. He could see his beloved Gotham—opening like a flower below him—with new eyes—as if it were not just a city of concrete and glass…but a pulsing, living thing. And at his side, protecting him, shielding him from his own vulnerabilities, was the harmony, the polyphony that was his vibration combined with Clark's.

It was only when he stopped flying, when he came to rest in a perfect place of congruence, that he realized Clark was actually standing there, at his side in form, but the Man of Steel was now larger than life, garbed in living armor that was the perfect embodiment of his inner champion, shining, majestic. It took only a moment for Bruce to realize that he, too, was similarly garbed.

"Look at you... _Bruce..."_ he heard Clark whisper. "You're _beautiful...."_

Then the heat, the blinding light flooded his brain and blew the husks of his vision away.

He awoke to Clark leaning over him worriedly.

"Bruce—"

He groaned, tried to sit up, but a hand like a steel bar pressed him to the ground, prohibiting any sudden movement. "How long was I out?"

"Not long," Clark said, hesitantly. "But I was worried."

"What happened?"

Clark removed his hand and sat back on his haunches. "I don't know exactly. My best guess is that I was able to pull you into my meditation when you kissed me."

"What I saw—"

"That was the theta state, the manifestation of your inner self on the astral plane." Clark paused, smiled ruefully. "I should have known you'd be beautiful, magnificent."

 _"Me?"_ Bruce said, incredulously. _"You._ I wouldn't exactly call you chopped liver."

"A mutual admiration society of two." Clark chuckled as he held out a hand to help Bruce to his feet.

"Why do I feel so tired?" he asked as he tried to walk off the affects of his recent experience.

"The theta state drains your energy," Clark explained, as he pulled Bruce to a nearby copse and then back down to the ground, and settled him between his legs, while bracing himself against the trunk of a tree. "Endurance requires practice." Clark tugged Bruce back into a light embrace that enabled him to get his bearings, soaked in Clark's natural warmth and soothed by the sound of his heart beating. It was almost enough to make Bruce fall asleep.

"Was that supposed to happen?"

"I don't know. That's why I said it was dangerous. I wouldn't have thought it was possible for me to pull you into my meditation like that, especially not as a result of a kiss, but, obviously, I would have been wrong. I really wish you'd reconsider—"

"No."

Bruce felt Clark sigh. The whisper of it ghosted across his neck and made him shiver.

"Fine. Have it your way."

"I always do."

"Keep it up, and the next time you faint I'm going to leave you to be scavenged by wild animals."

"I didn't faint."

"You did faint, like a little girl."

"Keep it up, farmboy, and I'll show you exactly how much of a little girl I am."

Clark scoffed, but he was obviously amused because his lips found the juncture between neck and shoulder, right where the collar of his t-shirt began, and started a kissing, a gentle sucking punctuated by flicks of a tongue, that was positively distracting.

"It seems to always come back around to sex with you. I sense a pattern, Bruce. I guess you have that playboy reputation for a reason, after all."

"I'm tired and frustrated, Clark." He tried to squirm away from the mouth devouring his neck, but Clark wouldn't let him. "Of course my mind keeps returning to the question of sex. Why don't we do that _talking_ you were so keen on, since we have some time and I'm not much good for anything else at the moment—and stop kissing my neck," he growled, "unless you want us to finish our earlier activities on the ground without any of the usual comforts."

Clark stopped kissing his neck, thankfully, but he also fell silent, for a much longer length of time than Bruce expected in light of the extended invitation to discuss their developing physical relationship. Clark's silence made Bruce want to turn in his embrace to see the expression on his face.

"I'm not human, Bruce," Clark finally said, in a quiet voice.

"As if I don't already know that."

"Do you?" Clark asked as he rested his head on Bruce's shoulder. "Do you really understand what that means beyond the simple statement of fact?"

"What exactly are you getting at, Clark?"

Clark's voice was soft, reflective. "When we were about to start our run, you asked me not to use my powers, as if the fact that I have them is something that is somehow outside of who I am, as if the mere fact that I have different natural abilities is offensive to you."

"You know I didn't mean it that way. I simply wanted to make sure we weren't using your powers as a crutch—"

"You're really smart, Bruce, smarter than most people. What if I said that your extraordinary intelligence was an obstacle somehow to our activities and I required you to act like a dullard? Or your eyes, Bruce—you're much more observant than the average person. What if I asked you to spend the day blindfolded, because I thought your eyesight gave us an unfair advantage?"

"What's your point?"

"My point is that we all have gifts. I accept the fact that you have talents beyond those of the average person, and expect you to use them. Likewise, I have talents that set me apart. Why would it be important to you for me not to use them, if we were lost or needed something done that I could do easily? I can only think that you'd _prefer_ it if I were more _normal_ —well I'm not normal. I'm not human. I'm Kryptonian."

Bruce sighed. He'd wanted to have a simple conversation about sex—particularly about when he could expect to have some—and he'd gotten blindsided with a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with how he actually felt about Clark, that focused on one isolated incident.

"Clark, you know how I operate. Self-reliance is very important to me, keeps me ahead of all the crazies that want to see Batman dead. I wasn't trying to be personal, or to imply that you should be something you're not," he explained. "If it's something that bothers you, I'll try to ease up—but, excuse my bluntness, what the _hell_ does this have to do with us having sex, preferably as soon as possible?"

Clark's arms tightened around his midsection. The Boy Scout bit his neck then laved the spot lightly with his tongue. "You have a one track mind."

Bruce didn't bother to respond.

"The _point_ is," Clark continued with playful sarcasm, "your need to always be in control of everything and everybody," he nibbled on an earlobe, "as represented by your need for me not to use my powers for something as simple as making sure that we don't get lost. Sex with me is beyond complicated, Bruce. I have to be in control at all times. I'm not even sure if I _can_ keep it all together to take this any further." Clark's voice lowered to a whisper, hot and desperate. "You make me crazy. I want you in ways I've never wanted anybody." A tongue traced the contour of his ear, and Bruce melted, sinking further into the warmth of an embrace that was as strong as steel, as soft as feathers. "For us to do this, you _can't_ be the one in control. It has to be me, Bruce. Controlling everything. The pace, the intensity—I have to make sure I don't hurt you."

Clark paused, and his next words were reluctant. "I'm not human, Bruce. I'm Kryptonian, and that's never going to change. If it bothers you that I'm stronger than you, that I'm faster, that I can see through walls, hear your heartbeat, that I can fly, if your need for control requires me to be less than I am—I could do it, if we were lost in the woods, or sparring, or playing basketball. I can't do it in the bedroom. It's too dangerous. You would have to be willing to let _me_ be in control, Bruce, in every way, or else we better not even start this."

"So you need to know if I can bottom?"

Clark sighed. "Basically."

Bruce managed to pull himself up and turn in Clark's embrace. "Why didn't you just ask me that in the first place? You really need to work on your avoidance issues, Clark." Clark opened his mouth to respond, but Bruce promptly stuck his tongue in it, silencing all objections.

When they broke apart for air, Clark was smiling.

"Well, can you?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Bruce shrugged. "Sure. No problem. How about now?"

Clark laughed. "Would you stop? Do you think you can drag yourself back to the hotel now? It's getting late."

Bruce pulled himself to his feet, in a modest approximation of his earlier graceful movement. "Your wish is my command, oh sex master."

 

28—

Clark was glad to see that Bruce had recovered enough to jog on their way back to the hotel but was concerned about the number of times they had to stop in order for Bruce to get his bearings.

"You _do_ know where we're going?" Clark asked, at yet another bout of jogging in place while Bruce looked this way and that.

Bruce scowled at Clark disdainfully. "Of course. We're going in the right direction, obviously."

"Obviously."

"We are _not_ lost."

"Didn't think we were," Clark agreed mildly. "I figured all this stopping and starting was to accommodate your decreased stamina. I heard it's the first to go, at your age."

"Funny, Clark. Just try to keep up."

The one thing Clark liked about jogging with Bruce, he realized, was the man's apparent predilection to talk while running at an even pace. Clark suspected that it was a method he used to regulate his breathing and to keep his mind busy while his body was engaged in a repetitive physical activity. If he thought about it, it made sense. Bruce wasn't one to have an idle mind, and jogging, even in such beautiful environs, could lead to mental boredom for someone with such an inquisitive bent. Bruce must have decided that they had found the right path towards the hotel, because he restarted their easy banter with a remark, about, of all things, his birthday.

"So...what did you get me for my birthday?"

Clark glanced to his right, for a quick look at Bruce's face to determine if he was serious. "What makes you think I got you anything at all?"

"I know you."

"You do have everything, Bruce."

"That doesn't mean there isn't something I would want."

"Like what?"

"What do you think?"

"You want me to promise you sex for your birthday?"

"Well...it is traditional."

"Traditional for whom?"

Bruce's voice was smug. "I've often been the happy recipient of birthday sex."

"So you think just because—"

"All I'm saying is that if I were holed up at this resort with anyone _else_ on my birthday, I would be guaranteed a surprise showing of lingerie, some time in the hot tub, perhaps some champagne and some chocolate-covered strawberries. No pressure, you understand. I'm just saying that's what I'd expect under normal circumstances."

Clark glared in Bruce's direction, but the man was staring ahead, conscientiously keeping an eye on the path. "These aren't normal circumstances."

Bruce snorted, a small inelegant exhalation of breath through the nose. "Obviously."

They jogged in silence for a few minutes. Clark recognized a tree he would have sworn they had passed at least twice before. He suspected they were jogging in circles, but doubted Bruce would appreciate his opinion on the matter.

"So...for my birthday...you plan to . . .?"

"Take you out to dinner."

"Ah."

"I'd look silly in lingerie, anyway."

"I'm sure you could figure something else out."

"I don't think so."

"There is such a thing as room service, you know, Clark."

"You have _such_ a one track mind."

"The easiest way to your destination is the straight path," Bruce said in a lecturing tone.

"Apparently, not when the destination's our hotel," Clark muttered. "Seriously, though, I didn't buy you anything for your birthday, simply because I didn't think there was anything I could get you that you would want or need, and believe it or not, I didn't expect this trip to go in this direction—between us—so if you want lingerie in your immediate future, I could arrange for someone to call you a hooker."

"A hooker."

"A really nice hooker?"

"So you actually plan on ignoring my birthday?"

Clark shrugged noncommittally. "Well...I did make some arrangements that I thought would amuse you—nothing major, mind you—but something in the nature of a series of challenges that I thought you'd get a kick out of, a way for Batman to show Superman he's the better man, so to speak. If you're game, and if you're successful, perhaps—just _perhaps_ —we can talk about the Wayne birthday tradition."

This time, Bruce did look in his direction, but only briefly, and with the utmost disdain. "I don't jump through hoops just for the hell of it, Clark. I want to know what I'll _win."_

"You could lose."

This garnered him a longer, withering look. "Please."

"Fine. We could bet money."

"I have money."

"A month's worth of monitor duty?"

"I'll worry about monitor duty when we get back. You'll have to do much better than that, Clark."

"What do you want, then?"

"You, of course. For the rest of the vacation, whenever, however—anything I want to do."

"Didn't we just discuss this?"

"I wouldn't impinge on your need to be top dog, Clark. I'm talking about frequency, location, accoutrements—all the fun stuff that surrounds the actual act. You _are_ willing to let me have some fun...?"

"You're always looking to wrest some kind of control out of the situation," Clark accused. Bruce merely shrugged. "And we haven't agreed that there's going to be any _act."_ Clark frowned. "What will I get if I win?"

"You won't."

"Humor me."

"One more vacation. Two weeks. Any time, any place. You can cash your chip in whenever you want, and I'll go with you."

"That's...quite a prize."

"It hardly matters. You won't win. I'll be sure to order the champagne and the strawberries when we get back to the hotel."

"If we get back to the hotel," Clark muttered.

Bruce ignored him. "You can skip the lingerie, Clark. I prefer you naked and wet."

"You're one of the most arrogant people I've ever met, Bruce, right up there with Ollie and Lex. I think I see a pattern."

"Don't put me in the same category as those two."

"Then stop acting like I couldn't possibly win."

"You underestimate yourself, Clark. I want you in my bed tonight. No more excuses. I will do anything I have to do in order to make that happen. Whatever you have planned—my motivation undoubtedly exceeds yours. Hence, I _will_ win. Besides, you won't want to win. You want this as much as I do."

"You're damn sure of yourself. Perhaps I don't want to be a notch on the belt of traditional Bruce Wayne birthday sex."

"You could never be a notch, Clark. After all, you _are_ the Man of Steel. That's a pretty memorable designation."

"Thanks," Clark said, with dry sarcasm.

"Is it a deal?"

"Absolutely," he agreed.

"Great. When do we get started?"

"Right after my afternoon session. We have to pick up the horses at the stables."

"Horses," Bruce deadpanned.

"Yep," Clark confirmed. "Horses."

"I hate horses...and they hate me."

Clark grinned. "I seem to remember Alfred mentioning something like that, but I didn't believe him. After all, who would believe that the big, bad Bat is afraid of a four-legged animal?"

"I am _not_ afraid—and you're banned from talking to Alfred ever again. The two of you are a menace."

"I was careful to pick activities that would even out our natural abilities, where my powers wouldn't come into play. We start with horses."

Again they stopped so Bruce could get his bearings, but this time, he was scowling like a thundercloud. "Don't I get any say in the activities?"

"No," Clark said mildly, jogging in place. "You already agreed to participate. If you wanted to talk terms, you should have done so before you gave your word...but you could always forfeit. I might still decide to give you some for your birthday, even if you lose..."

"In your dreams, Kent."

"Then it's settled." Clark was silent as Bruce picked their direction. "Are you sure you don't want me to check—"

"No."

"Fine," he said as they set off side-by-side, "but it's getting late and I want to get back in time to grab lunch before my session starts."

"Of course you do."

"Are you planning on making it an issue every time I need to have a meal? It's not like you don't eat. I don't see how you maintain all that bulk without being concerned about meals."

"I maintain this bulk by working out, and eating a modest amount of food in the proper proportions, along with dietary substitutes. I don't obsess about food."

"No, you obsess about sex."

"When it's within reach and there's nothing better to do—yes."

"Nothing better to do?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, Bruce, I don't. Are you saying that you'd somehow be bored with my company if the option didn't exist to do other things?"

"Of course not, Clark. You're great company. All I'm saying is that I'd rather be fucking you than talking to you, or vice versa as the case may be—since the opportunity has presented itself."

"Opportunistic bastard."

"Is that supposed to be an insult? Aren't most men opportunistic where sex is concerned? Oh, except you, Clark. You'd rather be _talking."_

Clark stopped jogging, put his hands on his hips and scowled. "Gee, look," he said. "That's the sun directly overhead. It must be, I don't know, about _noon._ Since I do have this lecture to attend— _and I can't be late_ —I'll have to leave you to finish your _trek_ all by yourself."

"Clark," Bruce crossed his arms over his chest, and lowered his voice in warning, "don't you dare."

"And since I know how you like to be self-reliant, I wouldn't _dream_ of using my powers to point you in the right direction, so I'll see you back at the hotel, Bruce. If you ever manage to find it." He stepped close and kissed Bruce thoroughly, and then used his super speed to disappear, before Bruce could close his mouth.

 

29—

Cresting a hill, Bruce got his first glimpse of the hotel in the distance, framed by the Sierra Nevada Mountains and bustling with afternoon activity. It had taken him another forty-five minutes to make the trek back from where Clark had left him stranded. He hadn't been _lost,_ mind you, but he would admit to a somewhat impaired sense of directional _specifics._ His out-of-body experience and theta state manifestation seemed to have had the effect of not only tiring him out, but also of dulling his physical senses, at least in the short term. Clearly, much practice would be required to build up his endurance.

In fact, he wouldn't have been _adverse_ to skipping the return trek altogether, if Clark had offered to fly them back and had tried to be the least bit convincing—but Clark had gotten it in his head to be _cute._ Apparently, the Boy Scout had forgotten about his long memory, and that revenge would be had when Clark least expected it.

Bruce stomped up the stone stairway that led to a large wooden deck and the rear entrance of the hotel, having had enough of sunshine, the wide expanse of the outdoors and the appallingly clean, fresh air. He tried hard to work himself up to his usual level of pique, or at least to a level that would be appropriate after having been abandoned in the woods by a companion. Clark could appear at any moment—since the Man of Steel should be on his way to his lecture shortly—and it was important that he exhibit the correct amount of disdain for Clark's actions. The problem was, however, that while he should be angry, while he should be pissed off at the man, all he could think about was the worried look in Clark's eyes when he had awoken from his cosmic sojourn, the strong arms that held him close and kept him warm; Clark whispering in his ear, _"You make me crazy. I want you in ways I've never wanted anybody."_

Bruce felt a spiraling tightness in his groin at just the remembrance. _This is getting ridiculous,_ he thought. The next time he saw Clark, he was taking the edge off of his frustration—one way or the other.

 _The mission, if you choose to accept it, is to get Clark over the hurdle and into bed._

It really shouldn't be this hard to get a grown man into bed, Bruce thought to himself in disgust. Obviously, Clark was possessed of much less experience with women than Bruce had expected him to have, and no experience with men—and while the thought was delicious, and evocative, and even awe-inducing to some extent, it was also problematic.

Instead of heading straight back to his room to change, Bruce took a detour to the bar in the lobby, where he grabbed a seat at one of the raised tables for two and ordered himself a hot chocolate to take away the chill he had picked up from being outside for so long. Though the weather on the south side of the lake was sunny and mild during this time of the year, it was still only late February, and the air had that knifelike edge that promised at least one more snowfall to cap the mountains in the three weeks or so before spring officially took hold. His chocolate was smooth and warmed his insides, allowing him some reflective time to digest what had happened between himself and Clark this morning and to plan his next steps.

It seemed the Boy Scout had some doubt about whether he could control his abilities in _flagrante delicto_ —and while the sentiment was flattering, it was hardly a mindset conducive to the types of things Bruce intended to do to him, intended that they do together. If there was one thing Bruce knew about his friend, it was this: Clark wasn't the best person to have in control of _anything,_ especially not the proper development of their sexual relationship.

There was a reason why Clark was such a solitary figure, why he was so alone and had such a small inner circle despite the way everyone loved and admired him, and it had nothing to do with his alien nature _per se._ It had to do with Clark's interpretation of his abilities as making him ultimately responsible for everyone's safety. The more people he cared about in a personal way, the crazier he became—trying to protect them all from any harm that he could have prevented, even if his ability to intercede was only theoretical. It was a god-complex—in the most humble and self-sacrificing of ways, but a god-complex nonetheless. So, Clark kept his distance unconsciously, so that distance would allow perspective, and perspective would allow him to have a life of his own. It was one of the fundamental differences that drove much of the antagonism between Superman and Batman in their working capacities: Bruce believed in empowering people and allowing them to spread their wings; Clark believed in protecting people from the fall at any cost, even if it meant that they should never be allowed to fly at all.

Hence, if Bruce allowed Clark's rationale about the congress of their sexual relationship to take hold, it would drastically restrict the range of their activities—and that was simply unacceptable. Bruce intended to have Clark in every way, in any way that came to mind, and refused to be curtailed by some misguided notion on Clark's part that he needed to be protected, pampered like a girl Clark had picked up at some office Christmas party. No one had more respect for Clark's abilities than Bruce, but such doubt had no place in the bedroom. If Clark expected to have control problems, such problems would be more likely to manifest.

Bruce wasn't discounting the risk, but life was about risk. Nothing was worth having without that fundamental thread of danger. It was simply a matter of determining the correct course around Clark's stubbornness and over-protective nature, but the end result was assured—he would have Clark underneath him, begging, writhing, moaning, calling out his name, and at the end of it all, at the end of this two-week _vacation,_ no one, _ever,_ would compare.

 

30—

It shouldn't be such an embarrassing thing to buy some lube...and some condoms—did they need condoms? Clark was immune to sexually transmitted diseases...but, maybe, Bruce would feel more comfortable if there were some on hand. Hesitantly, Clark grabbed a box...and then another...and then three more for good measure, and added all five boxes to his growing pile of "helpful aides" on the checkout counter of the hotel convenience store while the cashier merely looked at him and his mound of supplies impassively. The lobby store was typically small, so there weren't any other customers about to absorb some of the cashier's attention. She was older than his ma, with dark hair peppered with gray and a stocky figure. Clark could feel the heat rise to his cheeks as she started to examine the items she planned to scan.

A gray eyebrow went up. "You do realize that three of these boxes are Trojan Magnum XL and the other two are merely Trojan Magnum? The XLs are a full twenty percent bigger than the regular Magnums—though they are both quite ample." She stood there waiting, holding the boxes in her hand expectantly, three in the left and two in the right.

Clark blinked. "Uh..."

"Do you want me to change these two boxes to XLs?" she finally asked, with an exasperated huff.

"Uh..."

She sighed. "Right. I'll just change these for you, dear." She turned to the additional condom display behind her counter and paused. "You have a rogue banana-flavored pack in with four of the Mint Tingle. Was that intentional?" She looked at him over her shoulder.

Clark could feel his cheeks blazing. He glanced around, furtively, hoping for a rescue of some sort. "Uh..."

Another small sigh. "Right. Variety is the spice of life." She switched the boxes and turned back to the register. "Though I'm afraid to ask what you plan to do with," she did a quick mental calculation, "one hundred and twenty condoms." She winked. "Are you on your honeymoon, or something, dear?"

Clark thought it wouldn't be a bad idea for the floor to open up and swallow him. "Uh, no...."

"I understand," she said, with a nod. "Pays to be prepared. Though let me warn you that the Trojan Mint Tingles won't go so well with this." She held up the bottle of lubricant. "Watermelon lubricant and mint-flavored condoms," she shook her head regretfully, "not so much. You might want to swap out a box of the condoms with a non-flavored variety, maybe the Trojan Magnum Twister." She lowered her voice. "They're new, and very popular."

Was escape from this nightmare even possible? "Uh, okay..."

He was going to kill Bruce. He wouldn't even be in this position but for _him._

"Then, for the Mint Tingles you might want to grab a bottle of something simple—like that Astroglide Warming Lubricant over there." She pointed to an oddly shaped purple bottle on a display with similar items. Quickly, Clark grabbed a bottle and set it on the counter.

"Much better," the cashier said, and continued ringing up his order. "Massage oil, bubble bath, candles—I'm sure she'll be quite pleased," she lowered her voice again, "though I think you might want to hide all but one of the boxes of condoms. Five boxes might cause her to worry—and you don't want to seem too...enthusiastic."

"Uh, thanks..." Clark said, as he handed over the appropriate amount of cash, grabbed the bag with his items in it and prepared to make his escape.

"Anytime, handsome," the cashier said. "Your girlfriend is one lucky lady."

"I'll be sure to tell him that," Clark mumbled as he hurried out of the small shop, promising himself that Bruce would pay dearly for his embarrassment. As he headed towards the elevator that would take him up to his room so he could change for his lecture, he was only marginally mollified by the thought that Bruce was likely still in the wilderness, trying to intuit his way back to the hotel.

 

31—

Bruce finished off his hot chocolate and the sandwich he had ordered in addition, reasonably satisfied with his decided course of action concerning a certain Man of Steel. As he motioned for the bartender to bring his check, he again noticed the couple that was standing to the right of his line of sight, in an enclave that was shielded somewhat from the rest of the bustle in the large lobby. The couple was arguing, and although Bruce made it a habit to mind his own business, the man was being conspicuously aggressive, and had just stopped the woman from leaving his side by grabbing her by her long blonde hair. The woman yelped, and started to flail, but the man smothered her attempts at escape and pushed her into a wall, blocking sight of her with his considerable bulk. Bruce signed the bill charging lunch to his room, got up, and ambled in the direction of the arguing couple.

He could hear their heated exchange from twenty feet away. The woman was crying, and the man now had his beefy hands wrapped around her neck. Bruce looked around, but no one even noticed what was happening. By the time he found help for the girl she could be dead—her companion seemed that serious about wringing the life out of her. Bruce resigned himself to the confrontation and made his presence known.

"What's going on here?" he said as he approached. "Miss, do you need some help?" He placed a hand on the arm of the man to get his attention.

Immediately, the man spun around and swung wildly, yelling, "Mind your own business!" but Bruce merely sidestepped and added a judicious push, causing the man to go careening to the floor. The woman sank to the ground, gasping, while the commotion alerted hotel personnel to the problem. As hotel security made their way over, the man got up from the floor and charged at Bruce like a bull at a red cape. Again, Bruce dodged, sticking out a foot to tumble the man. He preferred to avoid doing anything other than keeping the guy busy until hotel security made it to the scene. Certainly, he preferred not to engage the man physically, as that would incite the need for an investigation into who had the right of it, and the only witness was the girl. Bruce's experience with battered women had taught him that it wasn't always wise to depend upon someone who had been victimized to volunteer the truth of the matter, and as soon as Bruce's net worth became known—well, more than one unscrupulous person had tried to sue him and cash in on a simple attempt to help.

As security restrained the man who was now screaming and foaming at the mouth like an animal, Bruce walked over to the girl. "Are you okay?" he asked, reaching down to help her to her feet.

Her face was tear-streaked, and there were angry red handprints on the cream-colored skin at her neck. Yet, her blue eyes were defiant as she glared in the direction of the man who had so recently tried to strangle her. "Yes," she said, taking a deep breath. She turned to him gratefully. "Thank you."

A security guard walked over, and as the woman explained what had happened—jealous boyfriend, as Bruce had guessed—Bruce checked his watch. He wanted to get upstairs and change so he could catch part of Clark's workshop, however, the woman wanted to press charges, and Bruce was the only witness to events. As he provided his contact information and agreed to make himself available should the need arise, the woman—Anna—stayed close by his side, seemingly reluctant to forego some perceived moral support as her boyfriend yelled expletives and called her derogatory names at the top of his voice. The security guards seemed resigned to calling the police, and hauled the boyfriend away to be held until they arrived. Anna indicated that she wanted to go to her room and change before heading to the station, and asked him if he wouldn't mind escorting her. Seeing no reason not to, Bruce agreed.

They made small talk as they headed in the direction of the elevators. Anna was a model, and the abusive boyfriend was her agent. Bruce tried to give her some sage advice without seeming presumptuous as they stood waiting for an elevator car to arrive.

"It's good that you're pressing charges," he said. "Make sure you get a restraining order. Even if you decide later to forgive him, it will show a pattern if he ever does anything like this again. It will make it easier for you to convince the police to help. Not that I encourage you to forgive him, you understand."

"I'll need an attorney," she sighed, "and a new agent. The spring season is about to start and I..." The girl seemed almost overwhelmed by the prospect, and Bruce felt bad for her.

"I can recommend an attorney," he offered. "And an agent. I have a few friends in the fashion industry."

"You do?" The girl grinned, and then threw herself at him, engaging him in a hug that was impossible to avoid.

Just at that moment, the chime of an arriving elevator sounded, and Clark exited the car. Bruce watched as Clark froze, stared at him for a moment with a blonde model in his arms, frowned, and then started up again, moving past him with a terse, "Bruce," and a nod, acknowledging his presence. Bruce untangled himself from the grateful girl who was now hanging on his arm, but before he allowed her to pull him into the elevator, he glanced down the hall at Clark's retreating back and sighed. This was _not_ a good development.

 

32—

As the author of _Letters to a Young Journalist,_ which was published in _The New Yorker_ over a twelve-month period to much acclaim, Clark was always called upon to speak at workshops and events that either recognized youth journalism programs or encouraged established journalists to mentor aspiring members of the profession. Ordinarily, he took his responsibility very seriously and always made an effort to prepare an engaging and meaningful presentation, but he had to admit to being more than a little bit distracted at the thought of Bruce with that blonde starlet wrapped in his arms like some long-lost girlfriend. Clark wasn't insecure enough to believe that Bruce would attach himself to some woman the minute his back was turned—okay, maybe Bruce would, under certain circumstances...but, surely, Bruce wasn't stupid enough to pursue him on the one hand, while keeping his roving playboy persona in place on the other...was he?

Clark couldn't help but listen to the sound of the heartbeat he could recognize from half a hotel away; listen for that beat to quicken with excitement or passion in order to compare the rhythm to his newly acquired knowledge of the way Bruce's heart sounded when he pulled the Dark Knight into his arms and kissed him senseless. Of course, Bruce's heartbeat remained wonderfully constant—as Clark knew it would—and came steadily closer, until Bruce was standing at the back of the room, in a dark suit and a tie that matched his eyes, with a half-crescent grin and an expression that was vaguely apologetic and more than a little rueful.

Ducking his head and smiling to himself, Clark finished his remarks with renewed vigor, all the while stealing glances at his handsome counterpart. Never in his wildest dreams had Clark expected that merely having Bruce Wayne standing in the room, watching him work, could produce in him such a heady euphoria, such a wild rush of emotions that included pride and gratitude and a hefty amount of desire to get Bruce alone where he could touch his face and kiss the sweetest, most demanding lips in the world.

Bruce approached as Clark descended the stage with briefcase in hand.

"I can't leave you alone for a minute." Clark's voice was dry, and he didn't smile—though he was tempted to. He was curious to know what Bruce would say, and didn't want to let him off the hook too easily.

"That wasn't what it looked like," Bruce said, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him out of the way of the tide of conference attendees who were milling about, and shepherding him over to a quiet corner by the abandoned registration table.

"I'd certainly hope not."

"Do you think I'd even _look_ at anyone else when I'm busy seducing you?" Bruce's tone was self-deprecating, and Clark could see the thin sliver of worry in those intense blue eyes that spoke to Bruce's desire for this misunderstanding not to spiral out of control.

Clark answered honestly. "I...don't know, Bruce. I'd like to think not."

His response caused Bruce to bristle, just a little, and to respond defensively. "You were the one who was all over Meredith, Clark," Bruce reminded him, accusingly.

"That was different."

"Really? How?"

"You're the one who set us up on that date!"

"As a way to get you to loosen up, not so you would end up in bed with some girl who doesn't even know—"

Clark was astonished, and interrupted hotly. "In bed? I didn't sleep with her...you thought I slept with her?"

"Didn't you?"

"No! We talked then I walked her back to her room." Clark lowered his voice. "I couldn't—I was thinking about you, Bruce. I couldn't do anything with her with you driving me crazy."

Bruce paused. "Well. Then," he said, with a dismissive way of a hand. "Exactly."

"Exactly?" It took a moment of perplexity for Clark to process Bruce's meaning, but as soon as he did, he released the breath he had been holding and smiled. "Exactly," he agreed, nodding. "I'm glad we straightened that out."

"Same here."

They stood side-by-side, watching the crowd disburse, talking about the new wardrobe Clark had found hanging in his closet in his room when he had returned to change for the workshop.

"I asked you to let me buy my own clothes."

"You asked me to let you buy the suit you were wearing for our dinner date yesterday night. I never agreed not to buy you anything ever again. What good would it have done for us to have spent all that time with that obsequious little man in the boutique if all you netted was one suit of clothing?"

"But—"

Two wolfish eyebrows rose skyward. "Picking out your clothes, knowing that you're dressed just to please me is an incredible turn on for me, Clark. You wouldn't want to deny me my fun?"

Bruce's expression seemed to imply he was being facetious, but his voice had dropped to that gravelly register that was all _Batman_ and that always managed to send a shiver down Clark's spine. It made Clark feel that Bruce was actually serious about what turned him on. Feeling a flush of heat, Clark thought it might be a good idea to get Bruce back to his hotel suite, where he could reestablish his claim on a man who still smelled lightly, unacceptably, of that blonde's perfume. He opened his mouth to tell Bruce that they should go, when he was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious voice, saying his name.

"Kent."

Clark let out an inaudible sigh, and readjusted his posture before turning to address the arrival of his least favorite colleague. "Casey," he acknowledged. He had hoped to be spared the dubious pleasure of the man's presence on this trip. The tall blonde reporter from the _Washington Post_ must have arrived at the conference late, because Clark was pretty sure he hadn't noticed the man's name on the list of registered attendees.

"Sat through your lecture, Kent," the man said snidely, as he looked Clark over as if he were molded bread. "You should try working on your delivery. Maybe then your audience wouldn't have to work so hard to stay awake."

Clark pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose bashfully. "Gee, I guess you're right Casey. I'll have to work on that a little for next time."

Casey turned his disdainful gaze on Bruce.

"Oh...I'm sorry," Clark stammered. "Bruce, this is Jack Casey, foreign correspondent for the _Washington Post._ Casey, Bruce is a friend of mine who also happens to be here on business."

"I don't need you to detail my credentials, Kent. I'm sure any person who _reads_ knows who I am."

"I read," Bruce said slowly, "but I have to say I've never heard of you."

But Casey had already dismissed Bruce as unimportant, and had returned his attention to Clark.

"Kent," he said, in that aggressive tone that never failed to grate on Clark's nerves, "I hear they're giving you an award tomorrow." He scoffed. "Whose bright idea was _that?"_

Clark shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Oh...uh...I don't know who makes these decisions. I assume they have a committee of some sort."

"A committee—right. Just like everyone else, they're starstruck because Clark Kent has the inside track to _Superman._ So they blow smoke up your ass, even though you’re a piss poor journalist, just because you have something they all want. You won't see me there applauding when they give you that bogus award."

Again, Clark pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and adopted a conciliatory tone. "Uh...I can understand your position, Casey," Clark said, nodding. "But don't you think that my work has some...uh...value—after all, the readers are the people who decide what sells newspapers, and my work has been rather popular with the public..."

"No," Casey said bluntly. "The readers are little more than sheep."

"But—"

Casey shoved his hands in his pants pockets and turned on Bruce. "What do you have to say about the quality of Kent's work?" he demanded. "As a reader, can you really tell whether his work is any better or any worse than any other reporter's work?"

Clark could see that Bruce was about to answer; there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that Clark recognized all too well. Worried that the Dark Knight would do something that they would both regret, he cast about for a way to regain Casey's attention, but he needn't have worried. Bruce merely speared his nemesis with a glare that broadcast his distaste like a billboard.

"I can't speak for the readers," Bruce drawled. "I'm a newspaper man myself." He paused, with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Or at least, a newspaper owner."

Clark watched comprehension dawn as Casey made the right connections. Clark glared at Bruce from behind the man. It would have been better for all concerned if Casey had remained oblivious to Bruce's identity.

"Bruce... _Wayne?"_ Casey asked, incredulously.

"In the flesh."

"I didn't—"

"Obviously. Now if you don't mind, I have business to discuss with Mr. Kent, and as delightful as your company has been, it is no longer required."

Clark couldn't help the small amount of satisfaction he felt at the way Casey blustered, speechless, and the way he finally turned and hurried off with not so much as a goodbye. Casey had obviously realized what a mistake, what a career-impacting catastrophe it was to have made a fool of himself in front of a newspaper owner—and not just any owner, but the owner of _The Daily Planet._ There were only a relatively small number of preeminent owners in the world, and they all knew one another. A bad reputation for a reporter amongst owners and their editors was akin to a death sentence, a guarantee that his work would find only second-class outlets.

"I don't think knowing that I hobnob with my boss is going to improve his opinion of me," Clark remarked, with an exasperated glare.

"I don't think it's necessary for you to lay it on that thick, Clark," Bruce said, grabbing his arm and steering him towards the door.

Clark disagreed. "Actually, it is. I don't have the convenience of a mask," he explained in a low voice as they exited the auditorium and turned in the direction of the elevators. "Clark Kent has to be so totally different from Superman that any comparison would be laughable."

Bruce shook his head. "I do the same thing as Bruce Wayne, but I don't let people walk all over me."

"He didn't—"

"He did."

"So?" Clark shrugged Bruce's hand off his arm. "I don't have time to get into a pissing contest with him."

"I don't like it."

"You did a good job defending my honor, Bruce." Clark grinned slyly. "Maybe I'll hire you for the job permanently."

"I already have a job," Bruce growled as the elevator arrived. "But if he bothers you again, I just might accidentally break his nose."

Clark chuckled as the door closed and Bruce reached across him to press the button for their floor. "I'd pay to see that."

"I accept blow jobs in lieu of currency."

Clark sighed dramatically. "Of course you do." He reached out and pressed the stop button. The elevator came to a jerking halt. Clark used the opportunity to scoop Bruce up and press him to a mirrored wall, and started doing all of the things he had been dying to do since they had parted company over two hours ago. Such a short amount of time—it had seemed like a _lifetime._ Slowly, savoring every involuntary response he elicited with his attentions, Clark placed small butterfly kisses along the line of Bruce's jaw.

"Do you think this elevator has a camera?" he asked.

Bruce shook his head as Clark made his way around to an ear, and captured an earlobe between lips, murmuring, "How long do we have, do you think, before someone restarts the elevator?"

"Eight minutes," Bruce answered immediately, with a fluttering of eyelashes like wings and a small shudder that would have been imperceptible to anyone else.

"I can still smell her perfume, you know," Clark whispered hotly. "In your hair, on your skin." He pressed into Bruce, felt the Dark Knight's hard response against the knee that held those long legs open, heard the quickening of his heartbeat—for him, only for him—and the sharp intake of breath. Clark reached up and buried a hand in the silk of Bruce's hair to emphasize the point, then used his handhold to pull Bruce's head back, just enough to allow easy access to his mouth, the mouth Clark had come to crave constantly.

Clark took precious moments to savor, to re-acquaint himself with tongue, to re-explore the soft insides that welcomed him so deliciously. "I think I'll have to follow your lead and do a better job protecting what's mine," he said, as he ran a hand down Bruce's shirt, over to the front of his pants, and worked the catch and zipper open. Bruce groaned, as Clark's hand released his cock from the confines of his clothing and started a gentle pumping, a flicking of thumb and forefinger around the head and over the slit at the top, eliciting drops of pre-cum like liquid pearls, until Clark pulled away from their kiss, asking, "How long?"

"Four minutes, twenty-eight seconds."

Clark's hand was still working, pumping Bruce's cock almost absentmindedly. "I've never done this before," Clark said with a grin, staring into eyes that were heavy-lidded with lust. "You'll let me know if I do something wrong?" Bruce nodded, and Clark sank to his knees, stared at a cock that was impressive and much like his own, still working it with hands, doing all the little things he liked himself, until he gathered up the courage to take it in his mouth, engulfing a hard length that throbbed hotly and wept for him sweetly.

Clark looked up briefly, allowed Bruce's cock to slide out of his mouth and over pursed lips, and found that the Dark Knight was watching him, eyes of cerulean intensity fixed on his face hungrily, as if he wanted nothing more than to devour his soul. It was only when soft hands fell to his hair, urging him on, that Clark broke their gaze and lowered his head, and resumed an ardent sucking, making loud, shameless noises that probably alerted the entire world to what he was doing.

"Time?" Clark asked, around the cock in his mouth. They were almost out of time, he was sure, but Bruce only groaned as Clark redoubled his efforts, basking in the heady sense of Bruce's capitulation, licking around balls, sucking hard, nibbling around the engorged tip—licking up and down the shaft. Bruce's hands were tight fists in his hair as cloth-clad hips started to jerk, at first slow, then with a rising intensity that echoed the throb of the vein beneath Clark's tongue.

When Bruce went over the edge, when he exploded in Clark's mouth with a groan and Clark's name on his lips, every other need, past or present, every other desire, paled in comparison to Clark's need to possess the man touching his hair, his face, who was pulling him to his feet and kissing him desperately.

Clark pulled back regretfully, and hit the elevator start button as Bruce arranged his clothes in some semblance of order. As the elevator jerked and continued its progress upward, Clark couldn't stop a wide grin from taking over his face. He had done something he had never done before, and done it well enough to render the Dark Knight speechless.

Bruce was leaning on the wall of the elevator as if for support, watching him with an inscrutable expression on his face, but when the car came to a halt and the doors opened on their floor, Bruce pulled himself up and moved to exit the car first. "Consider his nose broken," he said, over his shoulder. "I'll make sure you get to watch."

 

33—

About two years ago, when he officially stepped out of the shadows as Batman and took his place in the eyes of the world as an elite member of the superhero pantheon, the prospect of sex became...uninteresting, unnecessary, staid—a mere repetition of vanities that often interfered with the successful pursuit of the most important thing in his life—his mission. That's not to say he didn't indulge himself, and sometimes quite often—he was a man, after all—but the imperative, the need, the dizzying desire to be with any one person...the assault on the senses that distinguished the canvass of one exquisitely beautiful body from any other—he had somehow misplaced in the morass of excuses, explanations, lies, masquerades, higher priorities, the panoply of stresses from within and without, and plain old fatigue. But pressed against the door of his hotel suite, in Tahoe, of all places, with Clark Kent devouring his lips, his mouth, his neck, with a hand clenched roughly in his hair, and another taking random liberties, it all came rushing back: what it meant to _be_ with someone, passionately, crucially, to stand against the riptide of erotic sensations with that person as your only weight, your only anchor.

It seemed like it had been forever since he had felt _this_ way—had he ever felt exactly like _this?_ Surely, he had only forgotten, and this breathlessness, this threefold tightness in his chest, his stomach, his groin, the way every one of his senses seemed hyper-extended...how the whole of his body felt wracked by a prickling heat that was almost painful—he couldn't think of anything that had ever compared, but, surely, it was only a reintroduction, and his greedy, desperate response a result of self-deprivation. Surely.

He was about to try to regain some use of his voice, try to push Clark away so they could at least take their activities out of the hallway and into one of the rooms, when the door to Clark's suite opened, and an elderly Spanish lady—part of the housekeeping staff—came bustling out. Bruce was treated to the full effect of her startled _Ay dios!_ , her disapproving glare, and the way she made the sign of the cross as she rushed passed, since Clark quickly hid a blushing face in the crook of his neck. Bruce sighed, and shrugged Clark away until he was at arm's length. "Either we go inside _together,"_ Bruce growled, "and you resign yourself to not coming out of that room for at least three days, or you go to your own room and get dressed and we do whatever you have planned for my birthday." Clark stepped forward, mouth opened to say something, hands reaching for him again, but Bruce batted his hands away and glared. His voice dropped another octave in warning. "No talking," he said, "and if you touch me again there won't be any decision for you to make."

Clark grinned, nodded, turned away and stepped towards his room, but just as Bruce was about to release the tension in his body with a deep, cleansing exhalation of breath, a flash of wind and motion knocked him back against the wall, and Clark's lips were again against his own, stealing the breath he had just marshaled—and _then_ Clark was gone, like the remnants of a dream, and Bruce was left in the hallway, knees as weak as they had ever been, marveling at how exciting it was, how rich, how effervescent, to live in a explosion of color again, how amazing that he had survived for so long in the black and gray of his chosen world. After knowing Clark like this, he wasn't sure how he would ever find his way back to it.

 

34—

Clark waited impatiently in the hotel lobby for Bruce to emerge from the elevators. He had to admit to being very tempted to forget all about the plans he had so painstakingly put into motion and simply take Bruce up on his offer to lock the room door and only open up for food— _maybe_ —for as long as it took to take the edge off the _need_ to taste, to explore, to mark every inch of that scar-riddled skin as his own. The way Bruce, the ultra composed businessman in his black suit, looked with his head thrown back, as he kissed the expanse of a neck slightly damp with sweat, the salty sweet taste of him, the way dark hair like silk slipped through his fingers, the hard way the body of a perfect athlete fit against his own—it felt like his childhood, like every happy, loving, carefree moment in his entire life condensed into a single beam of white hot light.

That was why he had used his substantial willpower to resist. He had to win their bet, and assure himself another two weeks of Bruce's attention, to be used whenever he was lonely, distressed by the injustices of the world, frustrated at how little he allowed himself to do to alleviate all the pain and suffering; whenever he needed to live for a time in the simple beauty of a resonant, sensual moment—he would have a card to play with the only person who could understand. It was something to look forward to, something that would serve to buffer the hurt when Bruce walked away at the end of this trip. Clark was sure that Bruce felt _something_ when they kissed; his every reaction told him so. But that wouldn't stop the Dark Knight from sticking to the finite spirit of their arrangement—Clark knew that too. However, all Bruce really needed was a logical reason, an excuse, to continue something that he obviously wanted to continue anyway. That was what Clark told himself, and he believed it to be true. He would make sure Bruce had that excuse.

Just then, the object of his contemplation appeared from the elevator enclave, along with the blond bombshell from earlier in the day. Clark scowled to see her plastered to his side like an adoring fan. He was about to go over and "assist" Bruce in extricating himself from the girl's attention when Bruce smiled down at her and pointed in his direction. The girl looked startled and then blushed furiously. Clark wished he had thought to listen to the conversation, just to see what Bruce had said to embarrass her so, but Bruce was already on his way across the lobby, and the blonde was standing by herself, somewhat forlornly. He couldn't help the small thread of satisfaction that bloomed in his chest as he witnessed her obvious disappointment.

"Is she going to show up every time I leave you alone?" he asked as Bruce walked over to his side. The Dark Knight looked particularly handsome in his boots and black jeans and long-sleeved polo with the gray stripes. Deliciously casual in a way that made Clark's palms itch.

Bruce draped an arm around his shoulders and steered him in the direction of the door to the outside. "That might have been a possibility," Bruce agreed, eyes twinkling, "if I hadn't explained to her that I was here with my 'better half'."

"She took that to mean—?"

"Exactly." Bruce smirked. "Many people would say you are my better half—though I don't know if I would exactly agree. It's not my fault she took that to mean something much more...personal."

"Just as long as she doesn't disturb us," Clark agreed, smiling happily as they made their way out into the mid-afternoon sunshine.

Bruce squeezed his shoulders lightly and cast a sidelong glance in his direction. "If I didn't know better, Clark," he remarked, "I'd say you were jealous."

"Jealous?" Clark scoffed. "I don't think so."

"I call them like I see them."

"You must need glasses, then," Clark said. "I heard that tends to happen as a person gets old." Clark ducked out of Bruce's embrace and tapped him on the back of the head, and then turned and started jogging backwards. "Oh look," he said, tauntingly, "is that some gray hair I see? It'll provide that bit of distinction to go along with that receding hairline."

"My hairline is _not_ receding," Bruce growled, springing forward to administer a head slap of his own before Clark could dodge. "Why don't you tell me what's on our agenda for this afternoon, before I put you over my knee."

"Promises, promises," Clark chided with a smile and a raised eyebrow. "Don't make threats you aren't man enough to keep. Not unless you plan on calling Diana to serve as your surrogate—"

Before he could finish laughing, he was tackled by a black and gray blur that knocked him onto the grass and settled on his midsection. "Don't be too cocky, Kent." Bruce grinned down at him, framed by the sun and the high, clear sky, blue eyes sparkling. "Where there's a will, there's a way." His voice lowered. "If I wanted to have you over my knee, begging for mercy, ass cheeks hot and cherry red, believe me, nothing in the world would stop it from happening. I wouldn't need _Diana."_

Clark could feel the heat flush his face, his skin; he could sense the random people that were looking in their direction, idly trying to figure out what was going on between the two handsome men who had tumbled to the grass, but his eyes, his eyes were only for Bruce.

The Dark Knight rose slowly, held a hand out to help Clark up. "Anyway," he said as he fastidiously wiped dirt from his clothing, "when I win this bet, you'll have no choice but to do as I say, and I think I know exactly where we'll start."

"Bruce," Clark said, as they finished their trek to the carport and climbed into their taxi that was to drive them up the mountain to the Tahoe Equestrian Center where they would pick up their horses, "I'm going to win. Then we'll see who's over whose knee."

"Keep dreaming, farmboy. Keep dreaming."

 

35—

Horses. They were his least favorite mode of transportation. It figured that a boy from Kansas would gravitate to the smelly, obstinate beasts. It didn't help that Clark had somehow tricked him into picking a beautiful black stallion that looked quite majestic from a distance but who was apparently determined to show his rider who was the boss of the show. Clark, meanwhile, had selected a gorgeous, caramel-colored mare with white stocking feet who looked at him with big doe eyes filled with love and practically kneeled to let him ride on her back.

"You tricked me," Bruce grumbled as they rode side by side around the large paddock, warming up the horses. The air was crisp and the way the wind tousled Clark's hair, the way his eyes sparkled so bright, so blue, was positively enchanting, but Bruce refused to be moved.

"Don't be silly," Clark said, grinning. "It was your own ego. I suggested you take the gelding, but _no,_ the big bad Bat had to pick the meanest horse in the stable."

Clark leaned over and patted his horse on the neck, and Bruce would have sworn the mare leaned into the touch. Meanwhile, his horse was doing the obstinate crab-dance of doom, punctuated by that hopping, prancing motion that was a prelude to a full blown bucking tantrum. Bruce leaned over and whispered low, threatening things in the horse's ear in his best Batman voice, explaining all the terrible things that would happen to the stallion if he should succeed in bucking him off. The horse seemed unfazed, and Bruce was forced to recalculate the likelihood that he'd be able to capture either of the first two points.

To top it off, Clark was _smug._

"You can't threaten a horse, Bruce," he admonished.

"Sure you can. A horse is an animal like any other. I intimidate animals all the time."

Clark shook his head. "If you say so. Just don't hurt yourself when you fall off. You do know how to fall so you don't break a leg?"

"I'm _not_ going to fall."

"Right, but just in case, when he bucks you off make sure to keep your legs clear. I would hate to have to deny you all that sex you were hoping for due to incapacitation."

"I've got your incapacitation, Kent."

"See, that's what I mean. A horse can feel that kind of aggression, Bruce." Clark was smiling with that fake innocence that made Bruce's teeth hurt. "You should take a few deep breaths."

"Keep it up."

Clark laughed out loud and spurred his horse into the lead. His stallion blew air through his nostrils but refused to go one iota faster. Bruce sat back in his saddle and sighed.

 

36—

After Clark won both points—one on the jumps and the other racing—they rode the horses up the mountain to the Tahoe Adventure Center and turned the horses in at the satellite stable. Clark had to admit he was quite pleased with himself, and even felt a little badly for Bruce who had been thrown from his horse twice and was now walking with a decided limp in his step.

"Are you okay?" he asked solicitously as they strolled along the path away from the stables and towards the front of the park.

"Peachy," Bruce growled.

Clark got a little closer, leaned in and lowered his voice. "I was hoping to be the one to make you all bowlegged and unable to sit down. I see you let a horse beat me to it."

Bruce was quiet for a moment, and Clark began to worry that he was actually upset by the rough treatment by his erstwhile steed, but Bruce was merely savoring his response.

"Clark," he said, "there's one thing you can bank on: I won't be the only one suffering. I suggest you get that horse's phone number. It'll be the only thing you're riding today."

"Bruce—"

The Dark Knight hobbled off down the path, disdaining to look behind him or to slow down at Clark's entreaties. "Bruce," he said again, trying to keep from sounding plaintive. "You're not serious?" He caught up to his friend, grabbed his arm, and turned him around—to see Bruce grinning like a maniac.

"I suggest you ask yourself what the ultimate goal of our game is, Clark. I'd hate to see you sleeping alone tonight on _principle."_

The next stop was the paintball course, and after two rounds of Bruce expressing the utmost glee every time the Dark Knight managed to paint his face, hair, chest, arm, with bright red blobs of paint, Clark was feeling just a bit surly himself.

"You simply don't have that killer instinct, Clark," Bruce taunted as they turned in their equipment.

"And you go for the jugular?"

"When I have to. I think this makes us even," he said with a smile. "What next?"

Next was bowling, where they played three games and Clark won two. Bruce had a hard time believing that Clark's powers didn't affect his accuracy or the strength of his throw.

"I can control my powers," Clark explained. "Over the years I've learned the type of precise muscle control necessary to make sure I never hurt anyone, absent truly extraordinary circumstances."

"That's why—"

Clark nodded as he set his bowling shoes on the counter and waited for the attendant to exchange them. Once they were alone again, he continued. "Ordinarily, I could do anything with you, spar, run, arm wrestle, anything, and except for my natural invulnerability, I can turn off my powers like a faucet. I can _not_ fly, not run at speed, not look through walls, not hear your heart beating; not use any more of my strength than what I would naturally have access to." Clark paused. "If my powers were always 'on' I'd be in a lot of trouble."

Bruce was quietly watching him. When his boots arrived, he knelt and put them on. When they were both ready, Bruce grabbed his arm and steered him out of the bowling facility. Outside, the sun was making its way down the western sky. They walked over to the picnic area, grabbed some snacks from the concession stand and settled at a table.

Then Bruce picked up the thread of their conversation as if they had only stopped talking moments ago. He was eating a vanilla ice cream cone, and the flicks of his tongue, out and around, were rather mesmerizing.

"So what are we worried about?"

Clark grinned ruefully. "We're worried about the fact that I can't fly straight after I kiss you."

"What?"

"The first time you kissed me—in your room this morning—I left because I was so dizzy that I could barely stand up."

"Dizzy?"

"Dizzy. I got into my room, closed the door and had to sit on the floor for ten minutes, worrying that I was about to manifest some strange new power."

Bruce waggled his eyebrows. "I've been known to have that effect on people. A certain amount of swoon should be expected." Clark threw his bunched up napkin at him, hitting him on the left cheek.

"You're going to be wearing this cone, Kent, if you don't watch it."

"I wasn't swooning over you, you ass. You understand that there are five sense and that mine are enhanced?"

"Of course."

"And that the fifth sense—somatosensation—is the body-sense that can be broken down into proprioception, kinethesis and the cutaneous senses, which include temperature, touch and pain." Clark paused. Bruce was listening intently, but it was hard to believe he was really interested in a detail of the way his anatomy worked. "You sure you want to hear this?"

"Absolutely."

Clark frowned dubiously and took a moment to sip from his bottle of water. "You know my father, Jor-El, was a scientist. He wanted to predict the effects of yellow sunlight on me before he sent me here—obviously. The way he explained it in the records he sent is that I have an equal amount of control over my body-sense as I do everything else. The area of the brain responsible for somatosensation, the somatosensory cortex, is more advanced in me than in a human. My brain automatically processes pain, touch, proprioception at an incredible speed and translates them appropriately. So I'm invulnerable, and if you drop a buzz saw on my hand I wouldn't be injured or feel any pain. But if you kiss me, or touch me in a sexual way, my invulnerability and immunity to sensations such as pain, cold, heat doesn't in any way limit my ability to feel pleasure. The right sensations kick in and are appropriate to the situation. It's an adjustment my body makes automatically. It's the only thing that allows me to live like a normal person. Do you understand?"

"So I could put you over my knee and spank you and you'd feel it in a way appropriate to the situation." Bruce grinned. "That's good to know."

"You'd still hurt your hand."

"Who said I'd have to use my hand?" Bruce licked ice cream off his lips. "The important thing is that that wonderful Kryptonian brain of yours will know enough to translate the situation as acceptable."

"I'm not letting you spank me, Bruce."

Bruce nodded facetiously. "Okay," he agreed between licks. "I'll make sure not to ask you to let me do it. So what does this all have to do with your reaction this morning?"

Clark sighed. "This morning when you kissed me I lost my sense of equilibrium. If I had tried to fly, I would have likely flown into a wall. When we were downstairs in the restaurant and I spilled that glass of water on Lori, I actually _spilled that glass of water on Lori._ I never spill anything unless I mean to. Ever."

"This has never happened to you before?"

"Not since puberty. And it can't happen to me now. I won't be able to function, Bruce, without the knowledge and the confidence that the parts of me that are supposed to work automatically continue to do so. That I don't accidentally hurt someone I care about because I'm so excited that my brain literally short circuits."

"You don't know that's what happened. It's possible what you're experiencing is simply a temporary effect, and wouldn't have actually led to any dangerous or long term problem."

"But we don't know."

Bruce shrugged. "But we can take it slow and find out."

Clark shook his head. "No. I could hurt you."

"My risk to take."

Bruce was so stubborn! Why didn’t he understand that it _wasn't_ his risk to take?

"How about this," Bruce offered in a reasonable tone, apparently interpreting his obdurate facial expression correctly, "let's just do things your way. If it seems to be going well, we can revisit this discussion. Deal?"

Clark nodded slowly. "I'm not going to change my mind," he warned.

"Don't expect you to," Bruce agreed. "Just want to make sure we're not locked into anything too restrictive for no reason." He grinned lecherously. "Especially when I win this bet."

"Dream on."

Bruce finished crunching on his sugar cone while Clark checked his watch. They had another appointment soon but still had some time to waste.

"Have you ever thought about having some of your limits tested? I'm particularly thinking about your unconscious control. I assume that while you sleep or if you were to be knocked out your powers would remain under your complete control?"

"I have tried to get tested, actually, but no one has had the chance to test me that hasn't in the end tried to make a lab rat out of me," he said bitterly. "Seems the temptation to study Kryptonian physiology, to try to figure out why I'm invulnerable, why I'm immune to cancer, disease, why my resting heart rate is near stopped and I can be alive with blood pressure next to nothing, always trumps loyalty."

"Are we talking about Luthor?"

"And everyone else."

Bruce reached out, touched his hand. "Not me."

Clark looked down at the hand that was covering his own, and then over at the man who was making such a promise. "Not you."

 

37—

Laughter sounded again, louder this time, and Bruce glanced quickly to his side to see Clark smiling in the afternoon light, fingers vigorously working his electronic controller, trying to keep his model planes in the air. Behind them, the trees moved and made a high rustling sound in the wind. The brilliance of the moment, like a masterwork of oil on canvas, wasn't lost on Bruce. The perfect balance, the confluence of color, the lyrical lines, defining, emphasizing all that he had never allowed himself in a life so devoted—a longing to extend this moment endlessly washed over him, a keen desire to put his own controller aside and just tackle the man on his right, kissing him, tickling him, making him beg for mercy...at least until Clark shot Bruce's P-47 Razorback with his F4U Corsair, and he had to return his attention to the matter at hand. It certainly wouldn't do to let Clark win any more points, no matter how good he looked in the fading sunlight. This was war, after all.

"You're outta there, Bruce!" Clark crowed from his right, sitting cross-legged on the grass in a clearing with enough of an expanse of sky to allow their radio-controlled air battle.

Bruce merely chuckled to himself. Let the farm boy think he had the upper hand. He wasn't the owner of a subsidiary called WayneTech for nothing.

"I got you!"

Bruce ignored the chortling maniac to his right.

It did take a bit of maneuvering to avoid Clark's Warhawks. He shouldn't have let himself become distracted. Perhaps it was time he provided a little distraction of his own, Bruce thought. As he allowed two of his MIG-15s to bank left, leaving an opening for Clark's Warhawks to move in for the kill, he elbowed his competitor in the ribs, not hard enough to hurt himself in a pointless attempt to make the Man of Steel feel pain, but simply to surprise Clark—and it worked wonderfully.

"What the—"

Bruce did it again, as Clark's air fleet plummeted. This time he used his shoulder, too.

"Why you—"

Clark retaliated, and all of a sudden, their calm test of radio-controlled maneuverability turned into a tumble of arms and legs, elbows and head butts to the chest, both of them trying to keep two hands on their controllers and at least one eye on the planes while they jockeyed for position. Bruce was fortunate to be the one with far more experience in multi-tasking, and he used every skill to his advantage as one of Clark's planes completed a magnificent downward spiral and crash into the ground. He even resorted to a hip to the groin, knowing he couldn't hurt Clark, but feeling quite a bit of smug satisfaction at the hardness he provoked. Two of Clark's planes crashed into each other, and Bruce didn't feel bad about it, not at all.

It was over with the same abruptness as it had started. Bruce had control of the sky, with two planes still in the air. Eight planes were scattered in pieces all over the clearing, and as Clark fell back onto the grass, grumbling, Bruce felt somewhat badly about the destruction and resolved to make Clark collect all the pieces. He would see about restoring the planes to working order in his downtime.

"I won," he stated loftily as he landed his two aircraft with a flourish, allowing just a bit of smugness to color his tone, knowing it would drive Clark crazy.

"You cheated."

Bruce was outraged. "I don't cheat."

"First time for everything, then."

Seemed Clark was inclined to be surly about his loss. Bruce flopped onto the grass on his back at Clark's side and put his hands behind his head.

"All's fair."

"You attacked me."

Bruce shrugged. "You distracted me."

 _"I_ distracted _you?"_ Clark was incredulous. "How exactly did I do that? By trying to defend myself from your unprovoked attack?"

Bruce turned his head so he could look at his daylong companion. Clark's position mirrored his own, laid back on the soft grass, hands under his head, looking to the side. The thundercloud that had descended over his features almost made Bruce laugh out loud. Clark looked like a petulant three year-old, about to throw a truly spectacular tantrum.

"By being so damn gorgeous," Bruce answered mildly, and watched Clark's face with amusement, as the thundercloud seemed to dissipate magically, freeing his features to return to their ordinarily happy position. Clark was so _easy._ This was so _easy._

"Oh."

"Oh," Bruce agreed, returning to his contemplation of the clouds. It was such a nice day out, bright, crisp, clear. It seemed the weather was more than happy to cooperate with their plans. In fact, it seemed everything over the past couple of days had worked out perfectly. It was almost all too good to be true.

"You wouldn't have such a hard time if you learned how to multi-task, Clark," he remarked idly. "It's the same problem you have when you fight. You have all these powers, yet the first thing you do every time is to come out swinging." Bruce warmed to his subject. "If only you would think first, consider your opponent's strengths and weakness and how best to sequence your attack so as to..."

Bruce trailed off as he realized Clark had gone still, that somehow the warmth had been leeched out of the air. He turned his head. Clark was staring at the sky.

"Clark?"

"Et tu, Brute?" Clark said lightly, but there was no humor in his voice, and he didn't turn with his usual fond gaze and a smile that Bruce had come to expect, to covet.

Bruce could tell he'd somehow made an unintentional mistake, a serious one, if he was reading Clark's body language correctly.

"Clark. What's wrong?"

"When my powers first manifested," Clark said lowly, as if talking to himself, "I was scared. I had grown up as a normal kid, and all of a sudden I was floating in the air, shooting lasers out of my eyes. I found out I wasn't even _human._ Everyone thinks it's so great to be me, that it's so _easy."_

Bruce was silent. He wasn't sure what he had done to cause Clark this _pain,_ but being familiar with his own pain gave him the experience to know that certain things needed to be _said_ and not discussed.

"When I finally came to understand that my powers were a gift and not a curse, I tried to help anyone, everyone I could. Nothing was too minute to deserve my attention. From train wrecks to cats in trees, I made it my business to learn to use my powers the right way, everything appropriate to the circumstance. I thought about it, used my heat vision at certain times and my super speed at others, my super strength when strength was called for and my freezing breath when needed. I was so proud of myself. I was so smart, and I had it all under control."

Clark's tone had turned bitter, and Bruce had to stop himself from reaching out.

"It was right before I left for Metropolis that I tried to save a football stadium full of people from Conduit, who had a personal grudge against me. There were so many people, and I was so busy trying to figure out what I _should_ do, what was best for me to do given my powers, and Conduit's powers, and the number of people in danger that I—a little girl died, Bruce. If I had simply put myself in front of his energy beams she would be alive today."

Silence reigned for a minute, two. Bruce thought that the time had come for him to provide some physical support when it was so obviously needed. His palms itched with the desire to do so, but Clark started talking again, and Bruce thought it best to listen.

"I know what you all say: that I don't _think;_ that I rush in swinging. All muscle and no brains, isn't that what you all say?"

Clark turned, stared at him with hurt in his eyes, and Bruce wanted to kick himself. He had often been guilty of upbraiding Superman for some perceived lack of judgment, for rushing in, for taking on the brunt of the battle unnecessarily. He rarely cared who overheard his tirades at the Man of Steel over his refusal to think before attacking, what his own actions might cause people to think about Clark. Then, as today, he hadn't meant to imply that Clark was some stupid muscle man who couldn't understand the importance of tactics. He had simply wanted Clark to be more _careful,_ to minimize the chance he would get _hurt._

"But I'm the invulnerable one, Bruce," Clark continued, and his eyes, they were so earnest, so impossibly blue. "Whatever happens—it might hurt me but I always get back up. Others—innocent victims, pedestrians, team members that trust us to lead them, some of them only children themselves—I can't afford to hesitate, to think before I put myself between them and the mad things trying to hurt them. I put myself out front, I rush in first without hesitation, knowing that at the very least, it will buy time for people like you to do the thinking." Clark shook his head. "I can't do anything _else,_ Bruce. I won't."

"You're not invulnerable, Clark. Not really. You're damn hard to hurt, _but you can be hurt._ One day you might not get back up." He didn't bother to say that he didn't want to see such a day, would do anything to prevent it.

"I’d rather die, Bruce." Clark said slowly. "I'd rather die than live knowing that I hesitated, that another innocent person was hurt on my watch."

There it was—the crux of it, and the irony was that Bruce understood Clark's point perfectly, now that he had taken the time to think about it. He knew for sure that if _he_ were the one with the power, he would do exactly what Clark was doing. He understood. He wanted Clark to know it.

Bruce rolled to his side, used a hand to prop his head up and looked down, studying the face he had thought he knew so well, but this most human of aliens always managed to surprise him. Clark's eyes were closed, long black lashes resting against pale cheeks. It took only a slight shift closer for Bruce to be able to kiss one eyelid, then the other, and for his lips to find their way across a cheekbone, to meet their match a in a kiss of such slowness, such depth, it seemed they spent a lifetime pressed together, breathing each other's air, content to simply rest in the feeling of connectedness. Bruce dropped his hand to Clark's hair and pulled back. "We're tied," he said. "Four all. You wouldn't want to concede?"

Clark scoffed, raising a knee and adjusting himself in his pants. The movement made Bruce growl.

"Not on your life."

"You're exhausting my patience."

"You agreed."

"I want you. Now."

"You could concede."

 **_"Me?"_ **

"Uh, yeah. You. I'm sure you don't want to go back to the hotel any more than I do."

"That's out of the question."

Clark chuckled. "Then don't ask me to do things you wouldn't be willing to do yourself. Are you ready to go?"

"Not yet," Bruce said, falling back on the grass and closing his eyes. "I need you to collect the pieces to the planes. We shouldn't just leave them out here. I can fix them up."

 _"Me?"_ Clark objected. "Why me? What about you?"

Bruce didn't even bother to open his eyes as he recounted his reasoning. "First, five of the crashed planes are yours. Second, you have super speed, making it a simple matter for you to go about collecting things."

"Oh, _now_ you want me to use my powers."

Bruce waved a hand, but still, he kept his eyes closed. "And, third, because it's my birthday."

"I can't believe you played the birthday card."

"Believe it," Bruce said with a yawn. "Wake me when you're done."

 

38—

Who would have thought that Bruce Wayne was an expert at pinball? Clark frowned as Bruce racked up yet another free ball through some fast finger work and an impressive accumulation of points. Clearly, he had made a mistake in picking this as one of their contests, but he had been so sure that the cave-dwelling rich boy would be completely out of his league in an arcade. In what alternate reality had the Batman of Gotham spent time _playing_ like a normal kid? Every time he thought he had Bruce completely figured out, some new detail, some perplexing bit of perfection revealed itself. Surely there was no one more accomplished, more marvelous in all the world than the man who called Gotham City his own.

How very strange life can be, how unexpected, how grand. Watching Bruce get so much obvious enjoyment out of working the pinball machine, the intensity of his concentration, the entrancing way his hips moved to emphasize every press of his thumb against the buttons that controlled the flippers, it made Clark smile, because Bruce was obviously so _happy,_ and Clark was the one responsible for that amazing state of affairs. He had done much that was right in his life, saved people, saved the world, but nothing had ever felt as _right_ as this...even though Bruce had been playing that ball for the last twenty minutes, and his score was quickly becoming insurmountable.

This called for a distraction.

Casually, he moved closer to the Dark Knight, approaching from his heart-side.

"Don't touch me."

"What?" Clark remarked, innocently.

"Touch me and you die, Kent."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Clark agreed, putting his hands in the pockets of his jeans, but he inched even closer, until he was standing right behind Bruce, not touching him, but close enough that a dip of the head would bring his lips close to an ear.

Around them was chaos—kids running, screaming, adults laughing, game sounds loud and electronic, music blaring—but the two of them existed on their own oasis, their own island of white noise that muted the cacophony in the background. Into the hush, Clark whispered, "I can't wait to get you back to the hotel."

He allowed a faint exhalation of breath to caress skin below the curve of an earlobe. Bruce inhaled sharply while the small metal ball below the glass continued its mad journey, bumping against obstacles, dropping into holes...racking up points.

"No one has ever done to you what I will do to you, _Bruce._ In the shower, on the bed, on the floor, on the sofa—you don't know the meaning of the word _stamina,_ Bruce. All night long, until you can't _walk_ straight."

The imperceptible way Bruce shifted, as if his jeans had suddenly become too tight in all the wrong places, was immensely gratifying to Clark. Again, a slow exhalation of breath against delicate skin. Clark lowered his voice, until he was sure Bruce would have to strain to hear him around the noise from the pinball machine. "I want to be inside of you, Bruce. I want to pin you to the bed, make it so you can't move, unless I move. I want to hear you say my name, begging me to stop, never to stop. You'll forget how to sound like _Batman,_ how to sound like Bruce Wayne. And when I'm done, and you're too spent to move, I'm going to lick every inch of your skin, lap up every salty drop of sweat, until the taste of you becomes my only flavor, and you're begging me to take you again—spent, sore but begging for more."

"Dammit," Bruce snarled, as he missed a pass with his flipper and his pinball spiraled into death alley.

"My turn," Clark said, grinning, as he stepped backwards to allow Bruce room to vacate his position at the machine.

Bruce turned, glaring at him as if he'd just escaped from Arkham. "Bastard."

"All's fair," Clark said, shrugging. "I believe that's a direct quote. And don't touch me or say anything, Bruce. It won't work. I'm tuning you out, and it'll look very strange to all these people if you try to hurt me in public to no effect."

"I'm going to have Alfred send the Kryptonite," Bruce grumbled.

"Later, dear," Clark joked, "in private."

"Oh, you can be sure of that, Clark," Bruce promised in a low, dangerous voice. "All accounts will come due, farmboy. We'll see who's begging for more. I think you'll look very pretty on your knees."

"Nah, nah, nah...I can't hear you." Clark said, whistling over the sound of Bruce's voice, until his entire attention was consumed by trying to reach Bruce's lofty scoring heights. All his considerable concentration helped not at all, however. His best efforts couldn't prevent his ball from spiraling into the gutter far too soon to make any real headway. Bruce was smirking when he had to relinquish the machine.

"All that swimming," Bruce sniggered, "only to die upon the shore."

"Ass."

"You picked the challenges, Clark," Bruce commented innocently as his last ball seemed to find all the best scoring nooks and crannies. "I'm simply following your lead. Next time you should do a better job on your reconnaissance, especially if you want to beat _me."_

"I concede the point," Clark grumbled. "Finish your game. I'm going to the bathroom."

Clark's mood lightened considerably as he made his way across the crowded game room. Okay, Bruce would win a point for being a pinball maniac, but it was only one point, and Bruce was only up five to four. There was still more than enough time to mount a comeback. He located the men's bathroom, in a corner by the payphones, and made a beeline for the ubiquitous gray door.

Surprisingly, there was no one in the bathroom, at least initially. About ten seconds after Clark had settled himself in front of a urinal and began to unzip his jeans, he was joined on his right side by a light-eyed sandy-haired guy, four, maybe five years his junior. The speed of the guy's heartbeat warned Clark that he was anxious, which never boded well, in Clark's experience.

"Hey," the guy said nervously. "Clark Kent, right?"

Clark had always felt that bathrooms weren't exactly the best place to start up a conversation, especially when a person was about to do his business, but it was also hard to simply ignore a person who held a different view. "Uh...yes."

"Steven. Steven Singer." The young man extended a hand, thought better of it, given the circumstances, blushed, and then pulled his hand back. "I'm a reporter for the _Philadelphia Inquirer._ I attended your lecture yesterday. And today. You were _great._ The lectures, I mean." The young man blushed again, hard, and Clark got the distinct impression that the guy was about to _hit_ on him, of all things.

"Thank you," Clark said slowly, smiling a little. "I try to make them interesting, not always successfully."

"Oh, definitely. You were definitely interesting."

"Thanks," Clark said again, and could only hope that the young man had exhausted the small talk. He really did have to go to the bathroom, and it was a little hard to think about pulling his stuff out with the guy _watching_ him so intently.

"Hey, I was thinking, that is, if you're not here with anyone, maybe we could—"

"Clark, what's taking you so long?"

Clark jumped, guiltily, though he really had no reason to feel guilty. He wasn't doing anything. He wasn't even _thinking_ about doing anything. He glanced towards the door to see Bruce leaning on the doorframe glaring icicles at Steven. Bruce ambled over, and settled himself at the urinal to Clark's left. Bruce apparently had no compunction about unzipping his pants and taking care of business while talking at the same time.

"Clark," he said, "are you planning on introducing me to your friend?" The slight emphasis on the last word made Clark's eyebrows go up. Surely, Bruce didn't think...

"Uh, Bruce, this is Steven. He's—"

"A reporter at the _Philadelphia Inquirer_ who thinks you're interesting and wants to take you to lunch, or to dinner, or whatever—I heard." Bruce's voice was amused with just the slightest _edge,_ like a knife sheathed in silk. The young man to Clark's right mumbled something, zipped up his pants quickly and rushed out of the bathroom. He didn't even wash his hands.

Clark shook his head as he finally had a chance to do what he had come into the bathroom to do. "You didn’t have to scare the kid, Bruce."

"He was hitting on you."

"No he wasn't—okay, he was, but only a little. He wasn't serious."

"Now he's not serious," Bruce said smugly. "Now he's probably halfway back to the hotel instead of following you around like a puppy."

"Oh, sort of like your friend, Stick-Figure Barbie?"

Bruce snorted, zipped up his pants. "Something like that."

Clark proceeded to finish his business under Bruce's watchful gaze.

"What?" Clark asked as he noticed Bruce's gaze was a bit too intense.

Bruce opened his mouth to answer, tilted his head to the side, raised a finger as if he was just about to start a discussion, but then stopped. He closed his mouth and dropped his hand.

 _"What?"_

"I had been wondering," Bruce began, hesitantly, "but..."

"Wondering _what,_ Bruce?"

"Ejaculation."

"Ejaculation?"

"Well...I _was_ wondering about the relative velocity of your ejaculations, Clark. Really, I think it's the only thing we have to worry about. The way your abilities ramp up the stakes for most of your bodily functions, I thought it quite likely that you could ejaculate the way a gun or a cannon discharges a projectile, at a rate of speed that could possibly, you understand, be somewhat dangerous. But since I don't see any holes in the urinal, and it all seems quite automatic from my point of observation, I think it's logical to equate one penis secretion with another. I think we're safe."

Clark stared at Bruce in openmouthed disbelief.

Bruce continued. "That's quite a relief, let me tell you."

Clark could only blink. Twice.

"What?" Bruce asked innocently and shrugged. "I was just _wondering."_

 

39—

Obviously, Clark had suffered from a complete brain fart if the Boy Scout thought he could beat him at...anything _computerized_...or mechanical...or electronic, really anything that required _skill._ They had moved from pinball, to Pac-Man to Galaga, and with every humiliating defeat, Clark became that much more surly. Their final indoors challenge was apparently to be _darts,_ unbelievably. Batman's stock in trade was _throwing_ things. Either Clark actually did, subconsciously, want Bruce to win this competition—and just the thought of what he'd make Clark _do_ over the rest of the vacation sent an electric tickle up his spine—or the farmboy was simply not thinking in terms of _winning,_ which was typical Clark behavior.

Likely, Metropolis' protector had been primarily concerned about him having a good time since it _was_ his birthday, and the good-hearted lug simply hadn't made the proper adjustments when the day became a competition in earnest. Good thing Bruce wasn't quite so altruistic. As he hit the target dead center yet again, he wanted to chuckle at Clark's distressed frown, but he didn't want to hurt the big guy's feelings any more than was necessary. After all, being allowed to beat up on Clark had to make this the best birthday ever—and he was having a _very good time_ doing it.

"Chin up, Clark," Bruce said cheekily as Clark made an admirable attempt to hit the bull's eye with his last dart and fell just a hairsbreadth short. "I'm sure you're still in the running. Let's see, you have four points—two from those damn horses and two from bowling—and I have...let's see, one on the bowling, one from the air battle...hmm, three from pinball, Pac-Man and Galaga...and...one from darts." Bruce tapped his foot, raised his hand to his face to rub his chin speculatively. "Let's see, that equals..." Bruce mimed counting on his fingers. "Seven. Seven for me and four for you." Bruce shook his head regretfully. "I don't know what else you have planned for today, Clark, but it's getting late and I'm not sure you'll be able to make up this deficit. I'm pulling for you, of course." Bruce leaned in, lowering his voice and patting Clark on the back. "I'm a big Superman fan, but," he sighed dramatically, "not even _Superman_ can work miracles."

Clark shrugged his hand away, glaring. "Keep it up, Bruce."

"What?" Bruce blinked innocently, but couldn't hold the expression for long before breaking into a wide smile.

"I'm hungry," Clark grumbled, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"Of course you are. I've heard losing works up quite an appetite. I don't have any first hand experience at it, of course, but I have heard it been said."

"To the moon, Bruce," Clark warned. "To the moon."

"Threats will get you nowhere, Clark. And I've already been to the moon, thank you very much." Bruce stuck out his tongue.

Clark started at him a moment in openmouthed shock, then burst out laughing. He threw an arm around Bruce's shoulders and whispered in his ear, "Who are you, and what have you done with Batman?"

"Batman has left the building," Bruce said, in a hushed voice and with a perfectly straight face.

"Well, then, _Bruce,_ let's have lunch. We have a couple of things still on the agenda—things I suspect you'll like—and you'll need all your energy to keep up."

"Lead the way, oh runner-up to my magnificence—Ow! Clark, that _hurt..."_

Clark insisted on waiting in line to get into the Elvis Presley theme restaurant that was adjacent to the arcade rather than just grabbing something from the food court. It seemed to Bruce to be a lot of trouble to go through to wait for twenty minutes to get a seat in a rowdy, kid-infested, cookie cutter establishment when they could have just grabbed something of like quality from the concessions in half the time, but if it made Clark happy, if it kept the warm smile on his face, kept him talking about nonsense things such as the way his mother used to do his laundry, and how much he missed it, Bruce didn't mind. His tolerance for the commonplace seemed to have reached new heights over the past couple of days. What might have driven him crazy just a week ago seemed...cute, endearing, even unique and special _now,_ when it was _Clark_ babbling on. When he had some free time, he planned to examine this reaction more closely. He suspected it could be a sign of old age, a softening of the brain that he could, perhaps, mitigate, with the correct combination of vitamins.

In due time, they were seated and were able to order from a sticky menu that advertised the usual family-appropriate fare. Bruce selected a chicken caesar salad and Clark, unsurprisingly, an extremely large cheesesteak sandwich with fries. Once Clark had wolfed down his food and sat sipping his strawberry lemonade, he seemed to decide that they needed to do more _talking,_ or, more precisely, Clark felt that _he_ needed to do more talking.

"I've been talking all day," he objected, sitting back in his chair and sipping his coffee. They were waiting for the check, and it was taking an inordinate amount of time. "I don't think I've talked this much all year."

Clark studied him with all the earnestness common in puppies and small children. "But you haven't said much of anything important," he said. "I've been telling you all kinds of things, about my past, about the way I do things, and you've just been..." Clark waved a hand.

"Listening?" Bruce offered helpfully, with only a small amount of sarcasm, just enough to let Clark know that he was being a bit silly.

"Which I appreciate," Clark agreed, "but when are we ever going to have another chance like this—uninterrupted time where we can get to know one another better?"

"Likely never," Bruce chuckled, "especially since there's no way for you to win this bet."

Bruce was almost sorry to have answered so flippantly. A shadow seemed to pass over Clark's face, but the shadow dissipated, almost immediately, and Clark continued as if Bruce hadn't said anything at all.

"I trust you with my life all the time, Bruce. I'd like to be able to say I know you at least as well as you know me."

Bruce shrugged. "You know all the important things." When Clark sighed, he relented—though this time he realized that appeasing Clark, trying to keep him happy and smiling, was becoming an alarming habit, and that before too long, he'd have to...stop—but... _not yet._ "What do you want to know?"

"Uh..."

Bruce sipped his coffee, stared at Clark over the rim of his cup. "You _do_ have something you want to know...you didn't just put us through this conversation for no reason...?" Bruce blinked at Clark's abashed expression. "Did you...?"

"I didn't think you'd agree!"

Bruce sighed. "Clark, what _am_ I going to do with you?"

Clark was somewhat sheepish, but recovered quickly enough. "Okay, how did you learn to play pinball? I would have thought that particular skill to be outside of your realm of experience growing up."

"I'm a man of many talents," Bruce said, setting his cup down and smiling smugly.

"Bruce—"

"Okay, I ran away from home once. I ended up downtown at one of Gotham's first video arcades. I had heard about it, on the news. I was only eleven but I convinced the owner that I was fourteen. He gave me a job sweeping floors that I was supposed to do after school, but I wasn't going to school and spent the whole day wandering around the downtown shops. In the afternoon, after three o'clock, I would show up for work and stay there until eight when the arcade closed. I'd leave, and then climb back inside through a window, spend the night playing the games for free."

"You...ran away?" Clark was clearly surprised. "Why? Weren't you happy?"

"I'm not often...happy," Bruce said slowly, staring over Clark's left shoulder at a family of four who were busy eating and chatting up a storm, "not in the way I suspect most people are happy about their lives, who they are, what they do on a daily basis. Ever since...ever since my parents died, I've felt a restlessness, a...need for change that has often prevented me from being truly happy." Bruce shrugged, focused his attention on the man who was watching him with a furrowed brow. "Sometimes, I'm reasonably satisfied, but I'm rarely truly _happy_ with my life. I always feel there's more to do." Bruce paused. "I didn't develop this feeling as an adult; it has been with me my whole life, ever since I watched my parents get gunned down on the streets of Gotham City."

"But to run away, Bruce—where were you going?"

"To Asia," Bruce said, with a flourish of a hand and a self-deprecating chuckle. "To learn kung-fu, or at least that's what I told myself. I was taking private karate lessons at the time, and my sensei refused to teach me anything really _practical,_ anything that I could use to fight in anything other than staged tournaments. He said I wasn't ready, and I didn't believe him. I really was quite good."

"I'm sure you were," Clark agreed, smiling.

"But I needed money—"

"You needed money? You have a ton of money."

Bruce picked up an extra napkin, started shredding it. "Believe it or not, a rich kid with no parents doesn't have unlimited access to the trust fund. My uncle Philip was the US ambassador to England at the time and he was the only one who could make a change to my allowance. Alfred had effective control of the funds for my support as he had made an arrangement with my uncle to allow me to stay in Gotham." Again, Bruce paused. He suspected he hadn't talked about himself this much in...years. It was surprisingly difficult. "I refused to live in England, away from my home, the place that was my only connection to my parents. I was a rather difficult child, very stubborn."

"I can imagine." Again that soft smile, that light of amusement and understanding in eyes that invited him in to stay, to find comfort.

"My uncle refused to tolerate a scene around the issue. If Alfred hadn't agreed to stay on—well, things might have turned out quite differently."

Clark nodded. "Alfred is the best."

"He is, Clark. He really is."

"So you needed money?"

"I did. I had some, but I calculated I'd need a whole lot more to get me where I wanted to go. I had a passport, diplomatic immunity and a pretense, compliments of my uncle, but I knew once I got to Europe and needed to get from there to Asia, I'd have a lot of trouble if I didn't have enough money."

"You were only eleven, Bruce. I'd think you'd have a lot of trouble regardless."

"Of course," Bruce agreed, looking up from the pile of shredded paper that was once a napkin, "but at the time I thought money was my only obstacle. I was still innocent, in many ways, and being from a rich family, I had never really encountered a problem that money couldn't seem to handle. I wasn't aware of the other types of trouble I could get into as a child trying to travel halfway across the world on my own. Along with being stubborn, I suffered from a certain...intellectual conceit." Bruce grinned. "I thought I knew it all."

Clark sighed dramatically. "Some things never change."

"Do you want me to continue?" Bruce waited for Clark's amused nod. "Then don't be such a smartass."

Bruce cleared his throat, grabbed another napkin, opened it, and started folding it into small squares. "Anyway, I had some money that I had saved, but I needed more. Alfred wanted me to stay in school, to do things the right way, and he wouldn't hear of giving me any more money to pursue what he felt was a fool's errand. So I just...ran off. Figured I'd work until I had enough money of my own to do what I wanted to do."

"So...that's it? You learned to play video games while working at this arcade? You couldn't have been working there for long."

"About two weeks. Alfred found me and hauled me back to the manor by my ear."

"And...?"

"And he let me buy every video game that was in the arcade to secure my agreement not to run away again. I had my own arcade set up in the west wing. I still have everything, in fact, in pristine condition. You should have discussed this with Alfred. He would have told you I practically lived in the west wing until I was fourteen."

"What happened when you were fourteen?"

"Alfred had to live up to his end of the bargain."

"Which was...?"

"I agreed that I wouldn't try to run off on my own and he agreed he would accompany me overseas and serve as my guardian while I pursued my dream, as soon as I turned fourteen."

"So you and Alfred...?"

"Yes. He's been there for me from the very beginning. He was the reason I was able to do what I did then; he's the reason I can do what I do now."

"Wow. Just...wow. I could write a whole book about you, even before you became Batman. What did you do about school?"

"That's the really great part about it. Alfred took our arrangement very seriously. I had a regular English tutor who accompanied us throughout the trip, then Alfred arranged for specialized tutors at our every stop. If we were six months in Malaysia, I leaned Malaysian history, politics, language. If we were four months in Vietnam, I did the same, all from local experts in the field. Alfred traveled with me for five years, until I was nineteen, and then I went off on my own."

"On your own?"

"Seven years seeking knowledge from every master I could find." Clark sat back in his seat, clearly amazed. There was something about Clark's shock that Bruce found...very gratifying. He didn't often dwell on the road he had traveled, on the amount of willpower, the amount of shear determination he had to bring to bear in order to become The Batman. Having Clark appreciate his unusual path provided a strange sort of validation that Bruce refused to examine too closely. It was almost as if Clark's approval was... _important_ —but that couldn't be the case. Bruce needed no one's _approval,_ had never needed anything from anyone other than Alfred, not really.

"I still have all those machines in the west wing, actually," Bruce said, smiling slowly. "They're in great working order. I fiddle with them from time to time."

Clark returned his smile. "From time to time."

"Exactly. Of course, I was a rather solitary child after my parents died. I didn't have many friends who shared my interest in those games."

"You do now."

"Seems I do. I guess life is full of surprises."

"Speaking of which..."

It was just then that Bruce noticed the wait staff making a beeline for their table, all of them dressed as Elvis impersonators and shielding what could only be a birthday cake.

"No, Clark."

"Yes, Bruce."

"Clark, _no!"_

"Yes, Bruce."

When they all started singing at the tops of their voices, Bruce tried to sink under the table, only to be accosted by a smirking Man of Steel who threw himself onto his lap so one of the Elvis impersonators could snap pictures.

With a lapful of Clark, a good fifteen members of the wait staff grinning madly and the whole restaurant watching, Bruce just knew his face was flushed red. "Good LORD," he muttered. "Is this how the other half lives? Kent, you're going to pay for this...this is _so_ embarrassing."

 

40—

The sun was starting its final descent in a wash of reds and oranges as the public transport dropped them at the juncture of Highway 50, the starting point of their next challenge—one that Clark was sure Bruce would simply _love._ The place was dusty, and the roadside bar and ATV rental facility that catered to tourists who wanted to ride the Rubicon Trail was dilapidated in that well-used way that announced the buildings had been around for a long time, and would remain around long after the current season's batch of tourists returned to their city life.

Bruce was quiet and watchful. Clark was impressed by his willingness to follow along without asking questions, but he could tell by the way Bruce was bouncing on the balls of his feet and fidgeting as Clark dickered with the old man who handled rentals that the Dark Knight knew what they were about to do and was merely awaiting the details. When the old man wheeled out two top-of-the-line SD 200cc dirtbikes, one black with yellow detailing, the other red with silver detailing, Bruce practically melted on the spot, and all Clark could do was smile.

"Oh, Clark," Bruce tsk-ed. _"Clark._ I'm going to wipe the road with you. What were you thinking? Are you _trying_ to lose?"

Clark waved Bruce over to the map that was hanging on the wall. "Don't count your points yet, Bruce. I grew up riding dirtbikes. Don't think you have such an advantage."

"Right. You just watch and learn, Clark. Humility is good for the soul."

"What do _you_ know about humility?"

"I know enough to know that you could use some."

"Bruce, you are certifiable," Clark stated, as he pointed out their route on the map, how they would start at the spillway and have to complete the whole trail and return. He noted the obstacles—Post Pile, Walker Hill, the Little Sluice bypass, Chappie Rock—and how they would have to make it across the bridge at the Rubicon River to Cadillac Hill and finally, up to Observation Point. "Here," Clark said, taking two waist belts from the old man and passing one to Bruce. "You have water in there and a map, just in case you get lost." Bruce gave him a withering look. "There's also a disposable camera in there. When you get to Observation Point, have someone take a picture of you to prove you made it. The first one back here wins." Clark smirked. "Simple."

"You say all this like you don't plan on being there."

"Bruce, I won't be waiting around for you to keep up. I plan to leave _you_ in my dust. I want to make sure you're prepared to go it alone."

"Dream on, Kent. Delusions will not a winner make."

"Are you fellows ready?" the old man asked, interrupting their posturing. "I don't have all day, you know."

"We're ready," Clark said, and wheeled his bike out to the starting point, followed closely by Bruce. The old man was to serve as the starter, and stood off to the side, holding a white flag.

"Now listen," the old man said, pointing a finger, "don't go getting yourselves into any trouble. Stay on the trail. Try not to bust yalls heads open. There are no emergency vee-hick-els can get to you easily out here."

"I think we can handle it," Clark said as he gunned the ignition. "We're both rather experienced in this sort of thing."

Bruce snorted.

"Alrighty, then. Don't say I didn't warn ya. I know how you city slickers like to sue but that won't be flying out here. You be assuming the risk, and all." The old man raised his flag. "Get ready, get set...and go!"

The grueling race to Observation Point was amazing, exhilarating, exhausting and disappointing by turns. Try as he might, Clark couldn't shake Bruce, who was racing alongside throughout with the skill and dexterity that was his stock in trade. As it became obvious that neither one of them was going to flame out, fall off, or otherwise fall behind, their ride became a test of derring-do—who could make their bikes do the more amazing feat while maintaining forward momentum. Clark had to admit that Bruce scared the life out of him a time or two, but what amazed him most was that the Dark Knight always seemed to realize exactly what he could accomplish, and did so without hesitation. He never made it _just barely._ He made every move unerringly, with perfect execution and precision. He seemed never to be in any danger, though he accomplished feats that made Clark gasp to know that he was only human and could easily kill himself with just the slightest miscalculation. When they both reached Observation Point, neck in neck, it was with a keen sense of euphoria that Clark leapt off his bike, let the expensive piece of equipment fall to the ground with a crash, and swept a startled Bruce up in his arms for a kiss that was as frenetic as it was dizzying.

"God, you are so _magnificent,"_ Clark whispered in his ear as he slowly released Bruce and took a step back.

Bruce reached out, tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. "You're not so bad yourself, Kent. What are we supposed to do up here? Take pictures?"

Clark looked around. The cliff top was deserted. The whole of the world stretched out at their feet. "I was hoping there would be someone up here to take a picture of us—"

"Here," Bruce said, pulling out his camera. "Let's do this."

Bruce maneuvered them until they were standing side by side with the setting sun and the Rubicon Trail as the backdrop. "Smile," he said, and holding the disposable camera away from their faces, snapped a series of pictures. As did most of the things between them lately, it became a competition to see who could make the weirdest face, until they finally ran out of pictures.

"Now yours," Bruce said, and Clark pulled his own camera out. This time they both sat on the grass and took pictures falling all over each other from various angles, laughing the entire time.

When they finished, it was another kiss, and another, and another, until they realized they had better start their return trip. They were each becoming a bit uncomfortable at the thought of riding all the way back with a raging hard-on.

"I hope some of those pictures come out," Clark remarked, as they started their bikes.

"They will," Bruce said.

And they were off.

By the slimmest of margins, Bruce reached home base first. As they returned their bikes, he didn't even bother to gloat about it, and Clark couldn't marshal the anger to be upset. In fact, he no longer cared about winning or losing. The only thing that mattered—the only thing—was how happy Bruce looked, how he seemed to radiate happiness. The look on his face was something Clark was sure he'd remember for a lifetime.

"That was fun, Clark. Maybe we can do it again later in the week—with the ATVs." Their grins were their own reflections.

The old man returned with Clark's cash deposit. "The roadhouse over thar is a great place to grab a drink and wash up," the man said, "before heading back. You just missed the bus. The next one won't be by for an hour."

"Can you call us a car?" Bruce asked.

"Sure can," the man agreed. "It'll take about an hour."

Clark chuckled and threw an arm over Bruce's shoulders, steering him towards the door. "We'll be back," he called out. To Bruce he explained, "They likely want to steer tourists to the bar to spend some money. I'm thirsty anyway, and dirty, and a little clean water on my face won't hurt."

"I want us back at the hotel," Bruce grumbled. "Not wasting time in some roadside bar."

"What makes you think our contest is over?"

Bruce checked his watch. "It's five-thirty, Clark. I'm up by four points. Do you have cold feet? Are you trying to avoid the inevitable conclusion to this day?" They entered the roadhouse. Inside, the place was dark, and smoky, and there was music from a jukebox blaring country tunes, making it that much harder to hear. Bruce raised his voice to accommodate the added noise. "Because the way I see it, there's no way for us to complete five more challenges today, and if we're not back in our hotel room, preferably naked, by eight o'clock, _at the latest,_ I really am going to have Alfred send the Kryptonite."

"I guess you're right," Clark said, shaking his head in agreement, but he had an idea. It would simply take some acting on his part. It was always dangerous to try to fool the Bat, but he really had nothing to lose at this point. "Let's just get cleaned up," he said, turning in the direction of the bathrooms while trying to figure out the best way to manipulate a master manipulator.

 

41—

 _Thank you,_ Bruce said to himself, gratitude tangled in his heart but flourishing, as he followed Clark through the noise and the smoky dimness. It wasn't a sentiment he would likely find a way to adequately express out loud, but he hoped Clark would know how he felt and would understand. Long had he practiced courage, walked into the unknown without fear or hesitation. Over the years, this practice had created an efficient logic that controlled his entire life, but in the process he'd had to release his claim to days like this: a day so memorable, it would have weight and heat, color and depth, sound and rhythm—it would emit light to brighten his darkest moments—for a lifetime.

Bruce couldn't remember a finer, more remarkable birthday, since…since his parents had been alive. Four years of Christmases, Thanksgivings, Halloweens, Easters, birthdays, from about the time he was five years of age—these were his only memories of special occasions with his parents, and he held onto them tightly. Now, he had another day to add to those remembrances, and he was awash in the same nostalgia that anyone would experience when examining a prized collection, exposing it to the light…feeling the pull forward and backwards simultaneously. It was as if, in spending the day with Clark, knowing how much time and effort was put into every detail, he could perceive, lifted miraculously out of time and decay, the love of his parents and the comfort of being home again after so many years alone.

He had Clark to thank for it all.

Gratitude enabled Bruce to pinpoint in his own mind what mattered most in his daylong competition with the Man of Steel. Ironically, winning was almost incidental. What mattered was that winning ensured a part of Clark would belong to him, as the memory of his parents belonged to him. Victory meant that no one else would ever remember what he remembered, about Clark, about this day, about these two weeks.

"I wasn't planning on this being such a cakewalk for you," Clark said as they settled in front of the sinks in the men's bathroom and attempted to clean off at least some of the dirt that had accumulated during their excursion into the California outback. It seemed a twenty-four mile ride on an unpaved trail guaranteed dirt would be found on every bodily surface and in every crevasse—at least, that was what Bruce had to deal with. Clark was merely washing his hands perfunctorily, obviously just to keep him company. It seemed dirt wouldn't be so bold as to stick to Clark. Oh, _no._ Clearly, the Man of Steel was _above_ succumbing to anything so pedestrian.

"It wasn't a cakewalk, and why aren't you _dirty?"_ Bruce grumbled, but it was a good-natured grumbling—at least until he realized this bar was the type of establishment that refused to indulge in the modern convenience known as _paper towels_ , and he would be forced to dry his hands and face with one of those annoying hot air blowers.

"I'm dirty," Clark said, eyeing him defensively. "Just not as dirty as you."

"You're so _not dirty_ you might as well say you're _clean."_

"Well…"

"Do you charm dirt in the same way you charm horses and impressionable young journalists?"

Clark leaned against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "So you think I'm charming?"

As the dryer turned off automatically, Bruce sighed, making a last pass at his hair while peering at himself in the mirror. "Fishing for compliments, Clark?" he asked. "Why don't I save an assessment of your charms for tonight. I'm a little harder to impress than the average horse."

Clark chuckled and reached out to place a hand on the nap of his neck, steering him through the bathroom door and out into the chaos of the barroom. It was only early evening, and the bar wasn't crowded by any means, but the standard entertainments were in semi-swing: there was a jukebox blaring country tunes, two mostly-naked girls engaged in some desultory pole dancing, a mechanical bull that no one was currently riding, two pool tables, one of which was in use, and a card game going on in a dark corner.

They settled in their own out-of-the-way cubby and ordered beers when a waitress sauntered over. Bruce had to admit he was somewhat tired after their long day and was more than a little annoyed at having to wait an hour in this loud, uncouth establishment, drinking watered down beer and twiddling his thumbs. All he really wanted to do was return to the hotel for a quiet evening enjoying Clark's company, preferably in a horizontal position.

"What else do we have planned for today?" he asked. The Boy Scout was busy watching the dancing girls. The expression of appalled amazement on his face was almost comical.

"I made a reservation at that lakeside restaurant," Clark said, tearing his eyes away from the spectacle, somewhat reluctantly, Bruce noted.

"See something you want?" Bruce raised an eyebrow.

Clark turned three shades of red. "Uh…no…it's just…"

"Ever been to a tits and ass bar, Clark?"

"Uh…no...."

"Remind me to broaden your horizons…just not right now. Think you can focus on me for a while, Kent?"

"Of course…uh, yeah…what were you saying?"

Bruce smirked at Clark's renewed interest in the contemplation of his face. "I simply wanted to know what it would take to convince you to have dinner in our rooms instead."

"We have a reservation."

"Cancel it."

"At the last minute? I went through a lot of trouble to make that reservation, Bruce. Are you really that tired? Besides, it's your birthday. We have to go out to celebrate."

"We've been out all day, Clark. I think we've done enough celebrating."

Clark frowned. "You're not having a good time?"

"Of course, I am. I just want to have an even better time—alone in a hotel room, with you."

"It always comes back to sex." Clark's voice made it clear that he was not impressed by this propensity.

"And that's a bad thing? Listen, Clark, I did win our competition. You agreed to anytime, anywhere."

Clark sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Fine, when we get back to the hotel, I'll do whatever you want, but we are _not_ missing our reservation. So whatever you insist on doing, you better plan on being _quick_ about it."

Bruce sighed. This wasn't going according to plan, not at all. All he wanted—

"Can't we come to some sort of compromise?" he asked, and if his voice was a little plaintive, surely no one could hold it against him.

Clark glared at him rebelliously. "Fine. Such as…?"

"I want dinner in our room. What do you want?"

Clark dropped his arms and started drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table, looking him over speculatively. "I want winner takes all."

"Winner takes all," Bruce repeated, voice flat.

"Exactly," Clark said, clearly warming to his subject. "One more competition, something that we can do here, before we head back to the hotel, all or nothing."

"Why in the world would I agree to that?"

"Scared?"

Bruce scoffed, folding his own arms across his chest. "Of you? Hardly. But I'm not stupid. What would I get out of this? I've already won."

Clark shrugged. "You'd get what you say you want—the rest of the evening in the hotel room with no complaints. Unless you don't think your luck will hold out with it all on the line…?"

"I don't believe in luck." Bruce watched Clark lean back in his chair, with his Kansas sweatshirt, glasses hooked on the collar, hair falling into eyes that sparkled. Clark was grinning widely, like he'd just had an idea worthy of Einstein, like he was being _clever._ It certainly wouldn't hurt to knock Clark down another peg. Teach him a further lesson in humility. After all, it was so unfair that Clark should be sitting there clean and not even tired after their long day, with his dark hair curling perfectly over his forehead, with his eyes so blue.

"Fine—"

"Okay," Bruce said, agreeing despite his better judgment. "Winner takes all."

"Great." Clark slapped his hand against the table, making their beer mugs jump. Bruce watched as his eyes swept across the room, flitting away from the pool tables, the card game, the dart board on the wall in the corner, alighting, finally, with a broad smile, on the mechanical bull. "The mechanical—"

"I pick the challenge," Bruce interrupted with a hand raised to stop all discussion. There was no way he was getting on that mechanical bull, not even for Clark.

"But—"

"Or else we forget it."

"Fine," Clark grumbled.

Bruce looked around. He wanted something he could win easily and with as little effort as possible. Briefly he considered cards, but card games contained an unacceptable amount of chance, and he preferred to rely on skill.

"Pool," Bruce stated.

"Pool?" Clark repeated with a slightly worried frown.

Bruce nodded, immensely happy with himself. "Pool."

This wouldn't take long at all.

Of course, when it was all over, and Clark was practically glowing with smugness, Bruce tried to figure out what had gone wrong.

"Where did you learn how to play pool, Clark?" he asked, jaw tight, teeth clenched.

"Lex," Clark responded, eyes wide. "I told you we were best friends."

"You told me the two of you were friends. You didn't tell me he had turned you into a pool shark."

"You didn't ask." Clark grinned and examined his fingernails. "I am rather good, aren't I? Lex always said I had true _talent."_

All his hard work down the drain simply because he let Clark goad him into an ill-advised bet. "You tricked me," he accused.

 _"Me_ trick the Bat? Hardly." Clark smiled. "Come on," he said. "It's about time to catch our ride out of here."

Clark paid their tab, rested a hand on the small of his back and steered him gently across the room and through the front door of the establishment, back into the twilight and the wind that was swirling briskly, kicking up dust. Bruce was still somewhat appalled by the recent turn of events, the sudden loss of all he had gained. He wasn't in the mood for talking, and particularly disinclined to tolerate Clark's gloating, so when the overgrown Boy Scout pushed him over to the side of the building where they wouldn't be easily observed and up against the wall, Bruce merely glared at him sullenly.

"So we're clear on who won?" Clark asked in a low voice, keeping him pinned to the wall by his arms. "I get another two weeks of your time, whenever I want it."

"Yes."

"Great. Now that that's behind us, I have something to say." Clark paused, and with a half-crescent smile that made it so _hard_ to stay angry with him, continued, "You know the only thing I wanted out of this whole day was for you to have a good time. When we decided on the stakes for the competition, I only wanted to win so you'd have a reason to say yes if we ever have the chance to do this again, sometime in the future, when we both need a break and the world doesn't need saving." Clark released one of his arms, slowly, as if afraid he'd pull away, settled a thumb against a cheekbone and followed the contour from hairline to mouth. "You have to know I never had any intention of this being an either-or proposition. I want you more than—" Clark smiled again, and in his eyes there were promises of anything, everything. "There's nothing you could want to do that I wouldn't want to do with you—anytime, anywhere, Bruce. The dinner reservation—canceled. We'll have dinner in my room and spend the rest of the evening together, if that's what you want."

"Yes."

Clark stepped back, releasing him. "Then, I have a suggestion. You take the car back, and I'll head back on my own. Get dressed, and knock on my door at seven-thirty."

"More games, Clark?"

"No more games. I simply think it would be nice for us to do this properly. It's your birthday, Bruce. I want it to be a day you'll never forget."

Bruce stared at his friend in amazement. Did Clark actually think he'd ever forget this day? He might not be able to explain to Clark how much the day really meant to him, but he could smile— _for Clark_ —and he did. He put his heart into the curve of his lips. "You've already guaranteed that," he said. He had always thought actions to be more meaningful than words, in any case.

Clark reached out and ruffled his hair, grinning like a kid. Then he was gone, and Bruce was standing by himself, but not alone.

"You're going to pay for that, Kent," he warned the empty air. "No one ruffles the hair of The Batman and lives to tell of it. Not even the Man of Steel." Bruce would have sworn he heard laughter on the wind.

 

42—

That he almost flew into a tree was worrisome, but he refused to dwell on it, to in any way diminish the feeling of euphoria that seemed to lift him up and propel him forward at a speed beyond what would be normal, even for Superman. _Bruce._ The famously reticent Dark Knight had smiled at him, wanted him. _Him._ And Clark was endlessly enthralled by the notion, balanced on a precipice, wishing that the sky would go on forever—resolved to ignore the undeniable danger of such a whim.

As Clark landed on the balcony of his hotel suite, the immensity of his task crashed down on him like a ton of bricks. There was so much to do, preparations to make before everything would be perfect—and everything had to be _perfect._ He started towards the bedroom, aborted that movement, turned to the fireplace, thought better of it, and finally settled on ordering the food first. He rushed towards the phone, picked up the room service menu in a blur of motion along the way…and realized that he didn't have the slightest idea what to order.

What would be the perfect meal for a certain caped crusader on the occasion of his thirtieth birthday?

Clark had to admit, despite all the years he had known Bruce, he couldn't say for certain what the man would consider to be an appropriate celebratory meal. This was exactly why he had made reservations at a _restaurant,_ so that Bruce could select what would make him happy, and Clark wouldn't have to be under all this _pressure._ He sighed, checked his watch, picked up the phone—and did the only thing he could reasonably do to indemnify himself against a ruinous misstep. He dialed Wayne Manor.

"Wayne residence," a calmly cultured voice answered the line on the other end.

"Alfred!"

"Master Clark. What a pleasant if unexpected surprise."

"Alfred, Bruce wants room service for dinner and I haven't the slightest idea what to order. It's his birthday—of course, you know that—should I order steak? Does he like pasta? What's his favorite food—does he have a favorite food? Oh, God, I hope it's not something exotic. I don't think I have time to fly anywhere—"

"Master Clark—"

"This has to be perfect, Alfred. Maybe he'd like fish? He doesn't seem to like to overeat. I could order fish—maybe with a salad? Would he like that? We should have just gone out to a restaurant—"

"Sir, please calm yourself. I take it you have been tasked with arranging Master Bruce's birthday repast?"

Clark sighed. "Yes. I tried to get him to go to a restaurant but he—"

"Do you have a menu, sir?"

"Yes…"

"Read it to me, if you will."

Clark painstakingly detailed everything that was on the room service menu. Alfred asked a few questions, but finally decided that the best solution was for him to call the kitchen himself. He assured Clark that everything would be ready, to Bruce's specific tastes before he arrived at seven-thirty to eat.

"Thank you, Alfred," Clark said as he breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much."

"Taking care of Master Bruce is always my pleasure, sir. I've been doing it practically his whole life."

Clark chuckled. Alfred was so much like Bruce's surrogate mother or his wife; it was positively eerie.

"I take it everything else is proceeding according to plan, sir, and our Master Bruce is…adequately meeting his social obligations?"

Bruce couldn't be back in his room yet. Still, Clark lowered his voice to a whisper. "He seems like a different person, Alfred."

Alfred hummed a little in understanding. "He was the happiest child, sir, so sweet and good-natured. Even after the tragedy, he became quiet, angry, determined but never bitter or mean-spirited. Master Bruce has the kindest heart, the most generous spirit. His loyalty to his own is unswerving. He feels everything so deeply, sir, perhaps too deeply. I am so very pleased he's allowed you to see something of his true self. Very few people have been so privileged."

"I don't know how I'm going to go back to thinking of him—"

"Let the future see to itself, sir," Alfred interrupted him gently. "Enjoy yourself today. Everything will be as it should be in the end, I have no doubt."

"I'll do my best, Alfred." Clark signed off. "And thanks again for your help."

As he set the phone down, it was with a renewed sense of calm. Now that dinner was in Alfred's capable hands, all he had to do was shower, and change, and arrange a few small details. Nothing he couldn't handle.

At exactly seven-thirty, exactly seven-thirty on the dot, there came a knock on the door dividing the rooms. Taking a deep breath and wiping the palms of his hands on the sides of his pants, Clark went to open it.

Bruce was standing there, in a charcoal-colored turtleneck and slacks, looking dangerous, predatory, darkly beautiful—beautiful enough to take his breath away.

"Clark."

"Bruce."

Smiling slightly, Bruce asked, "Are you going to let me in?" when Clark neglected to move from his position in the doorway.

"Uh, yeah," he said, and stepped to the right, but Bruce failed to move past and into the room. Instead, Bruce closed the distance between them, and with a fierce rush, gathered him up and swept him away in a kiss, a hotly anticipated embrace that only intensified as tongues explored, as lips enticed, as teeth nibbled and teased; an embrace that was greedy, hungry, that thoroughly enabled the release of an accumulated tension in a blaze of heat that threatened to burn away Clark's ability to stand on his own without aid.

"I've been wanting to do that for hours," Bruce said as he pulled away, smiling rakishly. "If I wasn't starving, if I didn't know we had all night, I'd be tempted to drag you to the bedroom for your ravishment. You look particularly handsome tonight, Clark," He fingered Clark's collar. "This was a good choice."

Clark's mouth had gone dry, in the small span of time it had taken Bruce to say those few words. He shouldn't be nervous. There was no reason to be nervous just because Bruce was standing there, smiling, and looking so relaxed that he seemed like a figment of his imagination rather than the flesh and blood teammate he had come to understand and respect but had never truly _known._ No reason to be nervous just because they intended to change their relationship irrevocably, to _do_ what they had only previously joked about. "Should be," he said, clearing his throat. "All my wardrobe choices should meet with your approval; you picked everything out. What did they do with the things hanging in the closet?" He moved to let Bruce follow him into the room and over to where three small tables were artfully arranged with flowers, candles, wine, dinner, coffee, desserts, fruit, champagne, in front of the open balcony doors, where the light of the moon added its own unique accent to a room lit only by candles and a blazing fire in the fireplace.

Bruce prowled the circumference of the display, randomly touching things that seemed to catch his eye, a petal of a sunflower, the rim of a wineglass, the edge of a porcelain plate. "I'm sure your clothes are around here…somewhere, Clark, though you shouldn't be in such a rush to scare them up." Bruce moved towards the fireplace and crouched down by where a marble tabletop chessboard was arranged on the rug with pillows strewn around to serve as chairs. The pieces were set in their proper places. Bruce picked up a rook, studied it, then placed it back on its black square before rising to his feet. "Chess?" he said, with a small smile.

"It was supposed to be our last challenge, if we ended up tied," Clark explained. He could feel the heat rising to his face, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks, ducking his head to hide his inexplicable embarrassment. "I thought you might still…"

"You thought right." Bruce moved back to the dinner tables, to where Clark was standing, or better to say he flowed, as he did when in costume. Only this time, Clark could see his eyes, could ascertain that he was being measured, sized up. It sent a chill down his spine, and he shivered.

"This looks great, Clark. Are we ready to eat?"

"Uh, sure."

They sat. Clark did the honors, dishing out food. Bruce seemed very pleased with the selection of everything from the appetizers to the wine, and it was a great relief.

"You called Alfred."

Clark took a moment to swallow his mouthful of food. "You suggested I do proper reconnaissance. I really didn't know what you'd like to eat and preferred not to risk ordering you something that wouldn't appeal to you on your birthday." Clark allowed some dryness to edge his tone. "I know how picky you rich people are." An aristocratic eyebrow went up, mocking him playfully. "Alfred seemed like the only solution."

"Good thinking."

To Clark's relief, the tension dissipated as they moved from one delicacy to the next, as Clark relaxed into the companionable space that had been their own for the entire day, as the habit of a friendship based on an entwined calling reasserted itself. Bruce seemed unusually gregarious as they talked about everything, nothing, about the Justice League roster and the equipment in the workout rooms at the Manor, the latest incursion by Intergang and the newest modifications made to the Batmobile, about Luthor's recent attempt to take over Wayne Enterprises and the gossip going around the Daily Planet's newsroom. Bruce was laughing unreservedly, _laughing,_ and smiling wickedly, and teasing him shamelessly. Clark couldn't help but wonder if _this_ was the Bruce Wayne that gorgeous women around the world would identify as Bruce the playboy, or whether this was some other Bruce—a Bruce that could only be seen on special occasions, on windswept evenings, by the light of a crescent moon. He wondered what he'd have to do, who he'd have to be, to call this Bruce his friend forever.

 _It's not as if I can keep him,_ he reminded himself sternly. _It's not as if I can make him my own._

Between the two of them, they polished off a wide variety of food and an entire bottle of wine. Pleasantly sated, they closed the balcony doors against the chill, removed their shoes, and settled on the floor in front of the fireplace with their champagne flutes and two bottles, and the tray of pastries and chocolate-covered fruit. Clark had assumed they would play a game of chess or two, and to do that Bruce would have to settle on the floor at the opposite side of the board, but Bruce surprised him, insisting, instead, that he be allowed a place in between Clark's legs, with his back propped up against Clark's chest. As Clark tightened his arms and breathed in the unique scent of Bruce's hair, he had to admit that Bruce often had the very best ideas.

"It'll be hard to play like this," Clark commented, though the way he buried his face in Bruce's neck belied any concern about the issue.

"I'm comfortable, and the chessboard isn't going anywhere." Bruce sipped from his glass. "Clark," he said. "Strawberry."

Clark smiled. So the Bat wanted some pampering. He could do that. He grabbed the requested fruit from the tray on the floor by his side, and held it so Bruce could nibble. Chocolate-covered strawberries, cherries, banana slices—savored, shared, devoured with a roving passion that spilled over to fingers and palms, the pulse points at the wrists, and finally to fruit-flavored lips that opened, ripened like the sweetest grapes on the vine.

Fingers dipped into champagne and were sucked, and led to a trickle spilled on an exposed bit of neck and lapped up. The turtleneck—it was unnecessarily restrictive, and in one smooth motion, Bruce turned and had it up and off. In the firelight, his scars changed his skin into a puzzle of flesh, a pale maze of dedication, an angry testament to a harsh god. Clark removed his own shirt with fingers that stumbled over the buttons, until Bruce had to help him, his deft fingers making short work of the decorative fastenings. Bruce pushed his shirt open and off his shoulders with a predatory flick of tongue across lips. Now, they were both bare-chested and kneeling, face-to-face. The look in Bruce's eyes took Clark's breath away, pulled him forward, made him gasp for air.

It was impossible to resist touching, smoothing a hand over broad shoulders, pushing, until Bruce was on his back, on the rug in front of the fire. A tentative hand worked the zipper and clasp of his pants, until a perfect delineation of stomach was fully exposed. The bottle of champagne was nearby, on the floor, to the right, within reach. It was a simple matter to tilt the bottle, create a river that started at Bruce's collarbone and ran down his chest to pool in his belly button, and to follow that river, with lips and with tongue, lapping at liquor-flavored nipples, licking up wetness out of the creases created by scars, drinking from his belly button like it was a bowl. Bruce closed his eyes, inhaled sharply as he made his way down; he arched his back as a tongue dipped into the depression in the middle of his stomach.

Down, Clark wanted to continue his journey down. The hand buried in his hair, pushing, pulling, told Clark that the object of his affections wanted the same, but Clark had a purpose, a gift he wanted to give that was beyond the gift of his passion. Bruce was open and aching, and he might never find a better time to offer.

Clark raised his head, waited until Bruce opened his eyes, asking questions silently. "Bruce," he said, splaying his hand across the washboard surface of a stomach that seemed made for his touch. "It's your birthday. I…didn't buy you anything but…I have something for you. I don't know…I don't know if you'll let me…"

"Clark—"

"Don't say no."

"Tell me."

"I can remove your scars."

Silence. Bruce's eyes turned from lust-hazed to crystal clear in two blinks.

"No. My scars define me; they make me who I am."

Bruce was now coiled, tense. Clark could feel the change through the hand that was still resting on his stomach, could hear the accelerated heartbeat, and regretted his offer immediately, but what could he do but argue his point when the offer was already hanging over them? "You did say it's become too hard to explain all this to an average person, given your playboy persona," he said. "You can't take your shirt off to go swimming; you can't have…normal relationships. I know your scars, your pain, drive your mission, but Bruce, even a soldier knows it's unwise to have such drastic distinguishing marks. Keeping them actually jeopardizes your mission." Clark traced the contour of the longest scar with a fingertip. "What good is being friends with Superman, Bruce, if you never let me help you?"

Now hooded, Bruce's eyes allowed Clark no insight into his mindset, whether he thought Clark's reasoning had merit or whether he was offended by the suggestion that he needed help of any kind. Clark was just about to launch into another argument, just about to forget it all and resume his exploration of Bruce's body by lips and by tongue, when Bruce announced his decision.

"Not all of them," he said in a quiet voice. "Only the ones I say."

The look in his eyes was now inscrutable, but Clark had no need to seek behind the words. He had what he wanted—permission, permission to help, and it was a strange and wonderful thing. "Come here," he said, and pulled Bruce up and into his arms, kissed his lips, his champagne-flavored lips, and settled Bruce on his back with his head resting in Clark's lap.

Thus started the journey, the exploration, the pilgrimage through the life of a Bat.

"This one?" Clark let the red light of his laser vision softly illuminate a three-inch scar that marred the perfection of a pectoral.

Eyes closed, Bruce hummed his assent. "I got that one in my first fight with the Penguin. Stabbed with that blasted umbrella he carries. I made significant changes to the Batsuit after that, most definitely." More details, details that made Clark laugh, shake his head, wonder about the sanity of the man so trustingly resting on him.

"This one?"

"Joker. The first time he doused me with Joker venom. I fell off the roof of a six-storey building. Hit a fire escape…"

Every mark of battle, every cicatrix of remembered pain was examined, held up to the light, explained in detail, and either excised or ignored, depending upon some grand design that existed only in the head of the Bat. Clark was amazed at how many scars Bruce was actually willing to part with. It was almost as if the act of recounting the circumstances surrounding every trophy blemish was enough to release its hold on him, in most instances—but not in all.

"Not that one," Bruce said about an ugly scar that started below his right ribcage and wrapped around his side and over to his back. Clearly, it had to have been a life-threatening injury.

Clark paused. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Not now," Bruce said, eyes closed, face calm. "Maybe someday."

"Let me lighten it, so it's not so obvious?"

A nod.

Clark proceeded carefully, until he needed Bruce to flip onto his stomach so he could continue his laser-work. With Bruce's head resting on folded arms in his lap, Clark endeavored to complete his painstaking task, noting how Bruce's responses got slower and slower, encouraging such lassitude with a hand that gently stroked his hair, until his responses stopped altogether, and Clark was left with a lapful of sleeping Bat and a pink-tinged expanse of baby-soft skin that seemed made for his touch.


	4. Day Three: The Day Everything Changes

**Day Three: The Day Everything Changes**

43—

The dream was the same dream; only…

The ending was different.

The dream was…the same dream…

…Only the ending was different.

This time, there was no razor-faced man in the shadows, no bullet-laced ending; this time, there was hope, warmth, a smile as vast as planets, constellations, multiplying universes; this time, a heart, fiery with its long red rays poured peace into his life and sun over his senses. This time…

Bruce woke in symphonic movements, reluctantly, from a dream that slipped away like music on the air, his mouth dry, his eyes salt-encrusted. Slowly, he absorbed the fact that he was lying on a sofa in a hotel room not his own. Blanket, pillow—care had been taken, given. He pulled back the cover draped over him, revealed a smooth expanse of shirtless skin and the black, silk boxer shorts he had been wearing. Smooth, hairless. He trailed a hand across a chest that hadn't been this unblemished, this baby-soft in a decade. It felt like… _rebirth._ It all came back to him in a rush. His birthday, dinner, Clark—he must have fallen asleep… _and wasn't that ironic?_ And Clark—

Where was Clark?

Clark wasn't in the perfectly made bed in the bedroom, or in the bathroom; he wasn't in the hotel suite at all. Bruce refused to call out, to confirm his suspicion, but he made a careful circuit through the rooms by habit, even opening the door to his adjoining suite—though Clark being in there made no sense at all. The possibility existed that Clark had merely gone out to get…something he might have wanted, but it wasn't likely. Not in the middle of the night when everything he could possibly want was already available, not in the middle of _this_ night.

In the silence, alone in the darkened room with only the pale moonlight illuminating the remains of their meal on the table, the last few pieces of fruit on the plate on the floor by the fireplace and the remnants of a fire that had long since guttered out, Bruce knew for certain where Clark was, what he was doing—and the knowledge was galling, set his teeth on edge, his pulse racing. He went into the bathroom, rinsed his mouth; threw water on his face, stared at his reflection in the mirror for long minutes. Finished, concluded. Exited the bathroom, walked to the balcony doors, opened them wide, even though the cold air pricked his skin, raising goose bumps. He refused to shiver. Then he went over and grabbed the armchair, and maneuvered it closer to the doors. He turned the chair around and sat, and waited. And _waited._ For three hours, he waited…his only company the night breeze that blew; that set the white, diaphanous curtains to fluttering, like ghosts.

Until, in the pre-dawn twilight, a certain Man of Steel touched down on the balcony, perfect, glorious, like a bird or a morning star, falling. Bruce took some small satisfaction at Clark's guilty startlement when he caught sight of him sitting in his chair, waiting, but it was a parched amusement, hot and dry. Barren. Resolute.

"Bruce."

"I can't do this." His voice was low, flat. Impassive.

"Bruce—"

"I can't sit here on _vacation_ with my head up my ass while you're out saving the world. I can't, Clark. I won't."

He watched Clark hesitate, turn and close the doors behind him, and take up a tentative seated position across from him, floating, legs folded and cape trailing on the ground, so that they were eye to eye. To see him sitting in the air—it certainly did nothing to detract from the fact that Clark was so far above the humans he chose to protect. Bruce glared at him.

This time, Clark said his name quietly, with a small sigh. "Bruce."

"Do you think what I do is less important than what you do? That you can ask me to put it all aside—my whole life—and you not do the same?"

"No—Bruce—"

Bruce got up from his chair in an explosion of movement that was choppy, stilted, after sitting for so long, headed towards the door to their adjoining rooms. "I'm going home, Clark. This experiment is over."

In a brush of air, Clark was standing in front of him—Superman, brilliant, primary—Clark, with a hand on his chest, stopping his progress, blue eyes large and pleading.

"Wait. Would you just _listen_ for a minute?"

"Clark." Bruce looked down pointedly at the hand splayed across his chest. _"Clark."_ Clark removed his hand, let it fall to his side, but he refused to step out of the way. It didn't matter. "There's nothing left to say."

Hands to hips. Bruce knew the Superman routine, the looming, the hard gaze, the prelude to Clark actually losing his temper. His anger was always more substantial when he was in costume, but Bruce wasn't a criminal. Clark couldn't intimidate him. Bruce knew he was doing the right thing.

"That's it?" Clark said. "You're just leaving? Just like that."

Bruce crossed his arms over his chest, glared. "Yes."

"You're being ridiculous. What do you expect me to do? There was—"

"I don't want to hear it, Clark. I'm sure there was a kitten in a tree somewhere that needed your personal attention."

"You're not being fair."

"What you do is _not_ more important than what I do, Clark. I'm not some little girl waking up to an empty bed, sitting here waiting for her superhero to come home. I'm _Batman._ The least you could have done was _wake me up."_ What he didn't say, what he only implied, was that none of it was _fair._

Bruce had raised his voice, which was very much unlike him, he realized, but he simply couldn't seem to help himself. Not with Clark standing there all _Superman_ in his ridiculously garish blue and red. But as the echo of his words died down, Clark seemed to slump, to stare over his shoulder at some point on the far wall, to look down at the floor—and Bruce felt bad about that. It wasn't his intention to _hurt_ Clark; it was just that he belonged in _Gotham._ He was needed...in Gotham.

"You said you wouldn't hold who I am against me," Clark said. His voice was low; Bruce had to strain to hear it. "Just this morning—why did you say it if you didn't mean it, Bruce? Why do this at all if, at the first opportunity, you're just going to pick up and leave—without even listening?" Clark looked up, and as much as Bruce wanted to walk away, walk past him and into his own room to start packing, he just…couldn't. Clark's gaze held him as surely as an accusation of murder.

"This is just a game to you." Clark's hand rose, fell. "You start something and just arbitrarily decide that it's not working for you because I had to go out, because there was an earthquake in Japan and I could hear people screaming so loud in my head that I couldn't just block them out and go to sleep. What do you want me to do, Bruce? What do you expect me to do when so many people are dying…?"

Clark touched him then, his hand large but so soft against his chest, the long curve of his neck, against his cheek and the early morning stubble there. Forehead touched forehead. "We're the same," he said, "but we're not the same. I have a responsibility, and it's to the whole world."

"And I'm only human," Bruce said bitterly. "And Gotham is only one city. And thousands of people won't die if I take the night off."

Instead of Clark answering, he murmured, "You're cold," and before Bruce could object, before he could say anything at all, Clark pulled him in and wrapped him in arms that were as warm as any blanket. The cape—Bruce would have sworn it was alive, surrounding them in swirling waves as Clark lowered his head and captured his lips in a kiss that went on and on, like flying through the blue of his eyes, red wings billowing. Lost himself in kisses, flurried, deep, as he tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head, the voice that whispered: _this is the way to true happiness; let it go._ But he still felt the anger just below the surface, anger that no sky-filled pacification could assuage. It felt like …a breach of faith. To let it go. But in the end, as the kisses slowed, stopped, and Clark pulled away, _he did._

Clark loosened the circle of his arms, but didn't let him go.

"Are you okay? Are you tired?" Bruce's hand was at the collar of Clark's costume, working it, until he figured out how the right side of the cape detached.

"It takes a lot to make me tired."

He made short work of the left side, and the cape settled on the floor in a red cascade. Clark smiled.

"Good, because I'm wide awake. I'll never get back to sleep now, not without a workout at least. A hundred pull-ups, a hundred and fifty push-ups—and Alfred would make me some warm milk. " Bruce allowed a hand to trail from Clark's collar to his belt buckle. He worked it open and pulled it off. It, too, fell on the floor on top of the cape.

"I can't do anything about the milk," Clark said, eyes smoldering, "but I think I can provide the workout."

An eyebrow went up. "You think so?"

"I know so."

In a quick motion, Clark had his uniform top up and off. Bruce, never one to ignore an opportunity, moved in close, pressing chest to chest, and resting his hands on the small of Clark's back, where his fingers could work themselves under the waistband of shorts and tights; one smooth movement pushed the clothes over and down. Bruce followed, until he had worked the tight Lycra over hard thigh muscles, to the top of boots that took hardly any time to discard. Until Clark was standing, naked and erect, and Bruce was kneeling, hands trailing over calves, thighs, buttocks, over skin that seemed to tremor, to vibrate musically, as his fingers roamed.

With a small smile, he took Clark in his mouth and started sucking. A keen sense of satisfaction washed over him as Clark groaned, deep in his throat, as the man the whole world thought was invulnerable clutched at his hair as if to keep his balance, to stop his knees from buckling; as his hips jerked and jutted and Clark tried to pull away saying, _Stop…Bruce…God…too much,_ but Bruce wouldn't let him go. He could do anything he wanted with Clark now, on his knees with Clark's cock in his mouth, with his tongue licking around the heavy sacks, with his face pressed against the wiry patch of hair at the base. The Man of Steel—he seemed as weak as a kitten, as pliable as clay, as he licked and sucked, nibbled around the head, lapping up the pearls of liquid that told him as clearly as the harsh groan of his name on Clark's lips— _Bruce, oh God, Bruce_ —that Clark was well and thoroughly lost. It was with a sense of triumph that Bruce looked up to see Clark with his head thrown back, with no ability to do anything but say his name. Perhaps it was the sense of power over this godlike person who could save the world while he slept that had him rock hard in his own boxers; that made it almost imperative that he reach down to relieve some of the tension. Finally, _finally,_ he had Clark exactly where he wanted him, and as much as the whole world thought they had a claim on Superman, Bruce was finally able to stake his own claim—the only claim that would ever really matter.

 

44—

In his mind, Clark was riding high on the back of the tempestuous west wind. Sensations pummeled him—the eager press of moist lips to hard flesh; the feeling of strong hands caressing the muscles of his thighs, buttocks; the shameless, aching sounds of desire; the spicy smell of lust. He felt every wild, singular sensation—felt each one sharply and so much more vividly than he had ever thought to feel anything. It seemed the whole of his life before the moment that Bruce had gone down on his knees had been nothing but a dream, colorless and as insubstantial as smoke. Overwhelmed by it all, Clark felt he had not lived a moment before the moment Bruce had taken him in his mouth, had used lips and tongue to re-make his world.

Had he ever really lived before? Truly lived? If he had, he had never lived quite like this—so poised on the edge of a towering precipice, so hungrily from the gut of his stomach. He was falling; he had to reach out to steady himself. He buried a hand in Bruce's hair, tried to brace his feet, attempted to concentrate past the derangement of mind that took him outside of himself, had him spiraling upwards in a blazing inferno, holding onto sanity just enough to keep the desperate thrusting of his hips under control, not to hurt, not to injure. Not to hurt, _though it felt so good._ Not to injure.

Something must have warned Bruce that he was about to lose his tenuous vertical hold—the way his knees trembled, perhaps, or the way his skin seemed to vibrate as Bruce sucked the essence right out of him, or the increasing incoherencies of his groans. Deftly, Bruce maneuvered him, hands on hips, and pushed until Clark fell backwards into the armchair that Bruce had used to keep his odd vigil. The change in position was vertiginous, gut wrenching; Bruce used his disorientation to take control of his legs, to push them up, to fold Clark in on himself and expose him, to continue his adulation of Clark's cock by lips and by tongue. Every lick, every tiny flicker that danced along an erection that throbbed to the point of pain, that flitted across the underside of his balls, that laved the tight circumference of his anus, sent a firestorm of sensations like a rocket to his brain--he had never felt anything like this eerie heart-rending, this blaze of passion that left him only capable of stuttering: _Bru…Bruce—oh GOD, Bruce…_

It pierced him like a sword—the moment the tongue that was killing him breached the rim, started to work him open. He wanted to tell Bruce to stop, that it was too much; that this wasn't the way it should all go. That it wasn't _safe._ They had agreed… _they had agreed…_

But Clark—all he could manage through the dizziness, through the strange rigors of Bruce's passionate assault, was a hand that buried itself in hair like feathers, that clenched the way his soul clenched, that held Bruce's head in place—just _there_ —as the tumultuous wave rose, crested, changed the inner vibration of his soul into a desperate, discordant cacophony, exploded in color and in sound and in harsh, panting breath.

Clark's eyes snapped open. He jerked a hand up to block his sight, the hand that had been clutched in Bruce's hair—that had held him, made it so Bruce couldn't move away. His skin—he was still vibrating but now the feeling was soft, as through an element as dense as water, scattered in teasing ripples that made him shudder involuntarily, intermittently. A spiraling sense of shock propelled him and the armchair backwards, sent Bruce careening to the floor on his rump. Clark was on his feet, staring upward. There was ice on the ceiling, on the light fixture. He stared at it, appalled.

"Clark—" Bruce said, levering himself up from the floor to his feet. He took a step forward, hand out.

"Don't—don't touch me," Clark said, backing away. He needed some space to get himself together, under control. _Under control._ He needed—

Space.

He left.

 

45—

Bruce stood in the middle of the room, stunned speechless. Again, he was alone. Clark had used his super speed to disappear like smoke on the wind. The balcony doors were open; the white curtains, fluttering. But this time, Bruce refused to merely _wait._ He stormed to the balcony, pushed at the doors so they slammed against the doorstops, looked up into the dusky purple of the pre-dawn sky, and in his most threatening voice, snarled:

"Clark Kent, if you don't get your ass back here I swear I will pack my stuff and be out of here in twenty minutes and back in Gotham _where I belong."_ He crossed his arms, waited. "Clark." He tapped his foot. "Clark, you're pushing your luck with me. Don't make me have to go after you. I refuse to chase you around the world." When no Clark appeared, Bruce expelled a disgusted breath in a gust.

"Fine, Kent. I'm out of here. Don't think we're going to be buddies after this fiasco. I'm banning you from Gotham. I don't want to see anything red and blue in my city ever again. I'll work with you on League business, but you're not allowed to talk to me. Ever."

One last look at the sky. "Clark." One last pause before he had to make good on his threat. _"Clark."_

Then, like Michelangelo's _David,_ Clark descended from the sky, naked as the day he was born.

"I…forgot my clothes," he said, sheepishly, crossing his arms over his chest to detract from his nakedness, or to provide himself with some protection. Bruce wasn't sure.

"You left," Bruce accused, crossing his own arms. It was chilly out. Alfred would kill him if he caught his death of cold. "Again."

"Sorry," Clark mumbled, looking down. "I panicked. I—" He paused, seemed to notice the cold and their state of undress. "Let's go inside—"

"No. Not until you agree not to do this again. You can't just up and leave."

"You're always threatening to leave," Clark responded hotly.

"But I haven't."

"But you would."

Bruce scowled. Now he was arguing with a naked Adonis instead of—"Fine, I'll promise not to threaten to leave—"

"And you won't leave."

Bruce's scowl deepened. "And I won't leave."

"And I promise not to leave either, unless it's an emergency."

"An emergency? What's your definition of "emergency"? Anything can be an emergency. A cat stuck in a tree is an emergency to _Superman—"_

Clark was smiling. That had to be a good sign, even though the man was as annoying as _hell._ "Fine," Clark agreed mildly. "I promise I won't leave, unless it's an emergency, and if it is, I'll check with you first to make sure. Agreed?"

Bruce nodded slowly, released a silent exhalation of breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Another bullet dodged. Now, maybe, they could get back to what they were _doing._ "Let's go inside," he said. He reached out to grasp Clark's arm.

"Don't touch me."

"Goddammit, CLARK! What's the problem NOW?!" Bruce exploded. "I can't touch you?"

"Just don't," Clark said, brushing past him and into the room. Bruce could do nothing else but follow, closing the doors behind.

Clark made his way to the bathroom, and emerged a minute later wearing a navy blue robe. Bruce stared at Clark with hostility. The Man of Steel ignored him and took a seat on one end of the sofa. Bruce spied his clothing over a chair by one of the dinner tables. He had a t-shirt he could put on to take the chill off, but he _refused_ to put on another article of clothing. They had finally gotten to the point where most of their clothes were _off._ He would not go backwards. It was a matter of principle.

He threw himself on the sofa at the opposite end, looked over at Clark, and scowled. "The least you could do is light the fireplace." Twin beams of red light set the fireplace blazing.

They sat a good five minutes in silence.

"I'm sorry," Clark said, finally.

"You don't have to be sorry. Just tell me what's going through that thick head of yours."

"You saw what happened."

"What?"

"That." Clark gestured in the direction of the icicles on the ceiling that were now dripping water on the carpet.

"So you got a little excited." Bruce grinned smugly. "Tends to happen."

"This is not a game, Bruce. I could hurt you. I was right on the edge of losing control completely—right on the edge, and I was holding your head to my…" Clark's face turned red, and, okay, Bruce had to admit, it was kind of…cute to see a guy the size of a linebacker blushing over a conversation about sex. "You were trying to pull away, I realize that now."

Bruce raised a brow. "Well, I couldn't breathe," he agreed, but as Clark opened his mouth to say something like, _Exactly!,_ Bruce continued with his point. "But it was no different than in any other situation I've been in with any other lover." Immediately, Clark frowned, and Bruce had to admit that, perhaps, his statement hadn't been tactful, but his _point_ was valid. "In the throes of passion it's not unusual to get a little aggressive. I couldn't breathe, and it's natural for me to object in that instance, but it lasted all of four seconds, Clark. I was hardly in danger of brain damage for lack of oxygen."

"But—"

"But nothing. I'm telling you that you didn't hurt me, and feeling out of control—that's called passion. And although I'm sure the hotel staff is going to be quite appalled at the state of the ceiling and the rug, the fact of the matter is that you subconsciously directed your outburst in a way that you knew wouldn't hurt anyone." Bruce paused. "I really don't think it's possible for you to hurt someone while you're in conscious control of your powers. Even though you're about as swift as a Kansas haystack, your brain seems to be quite a wonderful piece of work. As long as you're in conscious control of yourself, I'd bet you'd be unable to hurt anyone."

"Are you willing to bet your life on it, Bruce?"

"Now you're just being dramatic. You simply need to relax. If it makes you feel better we can decide on a safe word."

"A safe word?"

"Exactly. We'll pick a word and a gesture. If you or I use either one, we'll stop immediately. This way you can be sure you're not hurting me, and can feel confident that if you think you're losing control, one word will stop whatever I'm doing." Bruce studied Clark as the Man of Steel mulled over his offer. He felt like he was in the middle of a board meeting about a hostile takeover. After such an intense negotiation, all his previously hard bits were now flagging. He sighed. Somehow, sex shouldn't be this complicated…

"Okay," Clark said slowly.

"Does this mean I can touch you now?" Clark nodded. Bruce was on the other side of the sofa in a heartbeat. He reached out, placed a hand at the nap of Clark's neck and pulled him in for a kiss. "Good," he said, before their lips connected, "I have a soldier that's willing to serve on the front line but he needs a bit of a pep talk." He captured Clark's hand and moved it to his crotch, demonstrated what type of pep talk he needed as their lips and tongues teased and tasted. It took a handful of minutes, like a hot wind stoking a forest fire, for Bruce to return to the same excruciating point as before Clark disappeared—desperate, greedy, wanting more of everything all at once—but this time, he was determined to get Clark horizontal, preferably in a bed where he could explore that perfect body unimpeded. He started to pull Clark up from the sofa.

"Bedroom," Bruce growled. "Now." The whole of his focus had been whittled down to two people and a single mission. Everything else that existed in the world was merely an intrusion. When he and Clark—lips locked together and bodies entwined—stumbled over the plates on the floor and had to clutch each other for balance, it was like nothing. When they collided with the armchair that was now askew in the middle of the floor, it mattered not at all. When they banged into the bedroom door, it was only noticeable in that the door marked their final destination.

Like children, they fell onto the bed as if it were a bank of snow. With short, frenzied movements, around kisses that roamed from lips to face to neck— _oh God, what a delicious neck_ —Clark managed to untie the belt holding his robe closed and get it off and tossed across the room; and Bruce managed to wriggle out of his boxers with the help of hands that seemed as super as their owner, that were all over him, all at the same time. Finally, after what must have been an eternity in every groan, every harsh exhalation of breath, skin touched skin. The sweet, salty taste—Bruce kissed and sucked and licked every place imaginable and found his passion answered in equal measure. Almost, the bed wasn't big enough to contain the wild gyrations of two grown men, the canvas too small to chart the artistry in the way lips clung to skin, the sensual nuances, the gorgeousness of two hard lengths fisted in one hand, the jerk of hips, the grinding motion as they rode the erotic surges and swells. Clark lay over him, pressed him down onto cool, smooth sheets, curved to his body. And they moved together like the waves upon the ocean. Bruce swam strongly in the sweetness of it, but it wasn't exactly what he wanted.

Expertly, Bruce flipped Clark over so that Clark was lying on the bottom. He needed…something, and when he whispered in Clark's ear, the Man of Steel groaned, eyes closed, and gestured in the direction of the nightstand. Bruce leaned over, pulled open a drawer filled with…every type of something he could want. It was enough to make him grin. Clark was such a Boy Scout. It was good to know that some things were constant in the world. He picked the first lubricant that came to hand, looked at it. It was banana-flavored. Banana-flavored. For some reason, the thought of Clark in a store buying banana-flavored lubricant was…funny. Hysterical. The laugher bubbled up in his chest; he tried to tamp it down but it was no use. He giggled. One blue eye opened, then the other, looking at him in confusion as he laughed, and laughed.

He held up the bottle. "Banana-flavored? Oh, Clark, what would your mother say?" Bruce dropped the bottle on the bed and tackled him.

 

46—

Looking up at Bruce as he grinned and panted for air, Clark was momentarily bemused by the man's dancing eyes. They twinkled at him endearingly with amusement and colorful happiness, with so many blues arranged in faceted complexity—heavenly blues, watery blues, the blue-black of midnight. Even though the room was shadowy, Clark could see the world in those eyes, and the moon, and all the stars. Even the sun was there, burning in the background, and all the possibilities of a perfect moment. It was only after Bruce's laughter had come to a halt that he paused, like a panther gathering itself for its next assault, eyes sweeping across the landscape of Clark's body, obviously enjoying the sight of his nakedness on display. It was almost enough to make Clark blush.

"I want you," Bruce said in a low voice like a swirl of chocolate in heavy cream. "Turn over."

Clark closed his eyes as his stomach lurched crazily. He had wanted—they had agreed that he would be the one—

"Bruce—" he said uncertainly, opening his eyes.

"Would you even know what you're doing, Clark, if I let you do me?" Those eyes he had so admired were now devouring him, hot and hungry. "Trust me. Let me show you. You'll have your chance, later, tomorrow. We have time. Turn over."

The simple fact that Bruce wanted something from him made it impossible to say no. Clark flipped onto his stomach, and felt the smooth stroke as Bruce trailed a hand down the middle of his back, as he leaned in and kissed a path from the base of his neck along the curve of his spine; as Bruce settled himself between Clark's legs and took to sucking at the small bit of flesh at the left juncture of hip and waist.

Clark groaned as he felt a hand tickle his balls, slap at his thigh to encourage him up on his hands and knees. He heard the flip of a cap, smelled fruit, as again he was assaulted by lips and by tongue, laving, sucking, invading his most private places; until fingers and warm lubricant replaced tongue, and one finger, and then two…and then three worked him open. Clark clutched at the cool sheets, buried his face in a pillow, tried not to squirm and make shameless, begging noises as Bruce worked his fingers in and out.

It was only the pause in activity, the sudden withdrawal of the digits from his body that made Clark raise his head, made him arch his back, begging in form if not in words. Bruce was up on his knees, and an insistent hand to his hip encouraged Clark to turn over.

"I need to see you," Bruce said. "I need to see you when we do this, okay?'

Clark nodded his head, not exactly sure what Bruce wanted but willing to give him anything, _anything,_ if he would only begin his sweet assault again. Bruce gathered his legs and pushed them high and unto his shoulders—and Clark understood. They were going to do this. Face to face. They really were. And the butterflies—the butterflies—took flight.

Bruce's cock was hard and slick and pressed against his opening, demanding entrance, pushing, until the entrance was breached.

Clark couldn't stop the small startled sound that escaped his lips as he breathed hard and fast. Bruce paused with the head of his cock right inside the tight ring of muscle, waiting for him to stop shaking, obviously, but he couldn't stop. All Clark could think of was, _safe word safe word,_ and trying to bring such a word to mind as the world exploded in bright white lights.

 _"Clark. God, Clark—"_ Bruce pushed in, groaning. _"So good. So fucking tight—"_

 _"Bru—"_ Clark breathed, trying to form the right words, trying to make the word— _safe word_ —cross his lips.

 _"Shh,"_ Bruce hushed him, soothing the flush on his face with kisses like wings, _"it'll be okay, Clark…oh God, Clark…wait, it'll be okay...."_ Bruce continued to murmur, soft, nonsensical things as he leaned forward, changing the angle, raising Clark's hips higher off the bed.

Too many sensations—they overwhelmed him. Pleasure. _So much pleasure._ The sensations washed over him like panic, drowning him. Stealing his control. Drowning him. It wasn't safe. _It wasn't—_

 _"Bruce—"_

He started to resist, started to pull his legs down from Bruce's shoulders and twist away from the rigid shaft that was trying to impale him so intimately.

 _"Don't,"_ Bruce groaned in his ear, trembling, pressing him into the mattress. The raw need in his voice stopped Clark's struggles, stilled him as surely as a command on the battlefield.

 _"Trust me."_ Bruce kissed him, quick butterfly kisses, on his cheek, his nose, his fluttering eyelids, whispered into the quivering hush, close by his ear, _"I promise, it'll be okay..."_

 _"God, Clark, I promise…it'll be okay."_

Bruce started to move again, started to ride him, stroking his insides with that hard, unavoidable length. Pounding into him. Angling—until Clark gasped, startled, when Bruce hit that spot deep within . . .

 _"Bruce! "_

. . . that made Clark pant and moan and rock his hips wantonly.

 _"God . . . Bruce!"_

Bruce increased his rhythm relentlessly. Harder, Bruce pounded into him. Faster. Long, soul-deep strokes, short, quick thrusts, Bruce set a pace that was masterful, symphonic. Clark threw his head back against the pillow. He couldn't breathe. He grabbed a fistful of black hair, pulled—

 _"Come on—"_

Clark was desperate—for what, he wasn't sure. He just knew he needed more, more of every amazing, indescribable sensation. Clark groaned and locked his gaze on Bruce's sweat-soaked face, the stars of his eyes, using his arms to try to pull him closer, further inside. Clark's whole world reduced itself to Bruce, his friend, his best friend, his abrasive, infuriating teammate, who was loving him and making love to him—

 _No!_ In the midst of passion Clark smothered that thought viciously. Fucking. They were fucking. Not making love—not! Making love. _Fucking._

He was _not_ letting Bruce make love to him, even though the sun and the moon and the stars were underneath his skin, pulsing, turning him translucent from the inside out. That was _not_ what was happening. Friendship, convenience, a release of tension—not love. _No!_ There was no love involved in this—

Shining, blinding. Intense pleasure and the knowledge, _this is the truest way to happiness,_ rose in him from his stomach, down into his groin, his legs, his feet, up into his chest, his arms, his face. Spread. Exploded. _There is no other way to happiness._

 

47—

Bruce Wayne had romanced his share of women, and quite a few men, over the years.

"Again?" A low chuckle. "You're going to hurt yourself."

His reputation, while exaggerated, was hardly undeserved.

"Don't worry about me, Kent." Whispered. A shift that moved their tangled limbs, so he was draped over the most perfect body in the universe, positioned to once again delve into the addictive heat that lived inside of his remarkable teammate. "I know my limits."

But none of those other liaisons could compare to this night with Clark Kent, what it felt like to be inside of him, to be the one responsible for his pleasure, for his startlement, for the hoarse sounds of ecstasy that spilled, uncontrolled from his lips. Clark's body—so outwardly familiar in appearance, but when stroked and kissed and sucked and invaded, so completely alien in response—responded on every level, with a consuming heat, a maddening movement of muscles, a unique vibration, like the trembling of a violin. Clark's body was an amazing instrument, unlike any other body he had ever had the privilege to touch—and Bruce simply couldn't get enough of it. This was the fifth time in less than three hours.

A lopsided smile, a flash of sparkling white teeth in the soft dawn light, a sharp intake of breath. "Don't blame me if you can't walk later."

"Can't stop." A kiss as he pushed in slowly and settled deep, rested there, satisfied, drowning in the gut-wrenching shift in his own inner harmony that seemed to instinctively match itself to Clark's vibration when they were like this. "Don't want to walk." A groan, desperate, needy. "We'll stay in bed."

Kisses, deep, wet. Another chuckle that ended in a sigh and sounded something like _conference,_ but that he chose to ignore.

Finally, he moved, setting a languid pace that wasn't so much a thrusting stroke as it was a slow grind, an intense undulation that kept him buried deep within Krypton's last son and allowed not the slightest withdrawal, not the slightest space between their bodies. Clark was right. He had his limits, and five times in less than a handful of hours with little rest in between pushed those limits. As he felt his climax build to its crescendo, he slowed, and stopped; found Clark's hands and threaded their fingers together. Then he raised both hands up and pinned them to the bed, on either side of Clark's head, buried his face in the smooth expanse of Clark's neck and closed his eyes, losing himself in feelings strange and heightened, of having Clark impaled so intimately and pinned so completely by his body. He let himself drift—a holding on and a letting go simultaneously—towards the sleep he had been denying himself for hours.

 

48—

 _How had this happened?_

Clark was sitting up in bed, staring down at a dark head of hair buried in pillows at his side. Bright, revealing sunlight poured into the bedroom, like lemonade into a glass, through the two skylights over the bed, and it was no wonder Bruce was burrowed under the blankets, face covered. He could tell his bedmate— _lover?_ —was still deeply asleep, even though it was fast approaching noon. Clark surely didn't want to wake him; what in the world would he say? Inch by excruciating inch, he slowly eased out from under the stray hand that was curled around his thigh and maneuvered himself off the bed.

 _The things they'd done—_

Clark blushed hard at the mental imagery; stood, looking down at the motionless form in his bed and felt the panic rise in the pit of his stomach. Everything— _everything_ —had changed. What _would_ Bruce say—now that they'd—?

Suddenly, and with a hot flush of desperation, he wished he had never come up with this vacation idea, never entertained the notion that Bruce would want— _God_ —never allowed it to go this far. Clark started backing away from the bed. Maybe he should just escape to Metropolis, _before_ Bruce woke up.

"Clark—"

A groan that stopped him dead in his tracks, paralyzed him, like he was guilty of a grievous offense.

"I know what you're thinking. So stop." A shifting of pillows, a head turned in his direction, a blue eye opened and squinted at him. "Come back to bed."

Clark ducked his head, shuffled his feet. "Uh, it's almost noon. I have to—"

"Get in bed, Clark. _Now._ Don't make me have to come get you."

"Fine." Gingerly, Clark approached the bed and settled himself under the covers, trying to keep as far away from his bedmate as the king-sized mattress would allow, but like the ocean to the shore, Bruce flowed into him, tangling their legs and pinning his torso with a heavy arm across his chest and a face that nuzzled his neck. Clark's eyes fluttered closed at the rush of sensations.

Thick like honey, Bruce's voice was still rough and low and laced with sleep. "There will be no sneaking away in the morning. No regrets, no arguments, no recriminations. We will act like two adults and take pleasure in the decisions we've made." Teeth captured an earlobe, making Clark shiver, dashing the objections right out of his head. He wasn't _sneaking._ Not…exactly.

Bruce was still whispering, his deep, commanding baritone low in Clark's ear. "We will greet each other properly, in the morning, upon waking." He pulled himself up until their lips met, long and lingering. "Good morning, Clark."

Clark had to take a deep breath, had to shake off the bemusement that had him floundering, lost in twinkling blue eyes. "Uh, morning, Bruce."

"And we will take care of basic human needs before we start the day." A hand captured his own and pulled it down to rest upon a straining erection.

Clark jerked his hand away, amazed. _"Again?"_

"Again."

"But—"

"And again."

"I have to go—"

Bruce stopped his relentless assault. Looked up with raised eyebrows and a lecherous grin. "Then we had better make this quick."

Clark sighed, giving in, letting Bruce have his way, and as Bruce kissed his skin from neck to belly button, he had to admit that capitulation had never, _ever_ felt so good.

Twenty minutes later, Clark was in a decidedly better frame of mind, infinitely more secure that this was, in fact, a manageable development in their relationship and that Bruce had no regrets—

"I have the awards luncheon in forty-five minutes."

No response.

"They're giving me an award. I can't skip it."

Arms tightened around his midsection, but the head resting in his lap made no move in acknowledgement. Clark buried his fingers in messy strands of hair and started to massage Bruce's scalp, eliciting a sigh of contentment.

"And tonight's the reception and auction for the Legal Defense Fund. Um, I'm actually part of the auction," Clark said, somewhat embarrassed, but the heavy weight resting on him moved not a whit. "I'm going to need you to, uh, buy me."

Now, he could tell that Bruce was smiling into the skin of his stomach.

"Come on, Bruce, I can't be late—"

Finally, Gotham's prince raised his head and skewered him with an accusing gaze.

"I _am_ here to attend the conference," Clark said defensively as Bruce kicked the covers off peevishly. "How was I supposed to know that you're practically insatiable and would want to stay in bed all day? I told you to get some sleep—"

"Clark."

"What?"

"Shut up. You talk too much. Just go start the shower. I'll be there in a minute."

"You don't have to—"

 _"Go."_

Clark shrugged as he levered himself off the bed and headed towards the en suite, looking back once to find Bruce laying on his back, hands crossed under his head, naked and perfect. Clark shook his head in amazement. Bruce Wayne was his lover. _His._ Simply amazing.

In the bathroom, Clark whistled a show tune as he started the shower and gathered his equipment to shave. He had just finished his left cheek when he noticed Bruce leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, avidly watching the progress of his laser vision as the beams bounced off the large bathroom mirror to the small mirror he held in a hand and angled towards his face so the ricochet could burn away his day-old stubble.

"So that's how you do it."

"Yeah."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. Stings a little."

"So you can actually injure yourself with your own powers."

"I guess."

"Don't you know?"

"Well, I've never actually tried to skewer myself with my own laser vision, Bruce."

The Dark Knight made a small, noncommittal sound in his throat, as if _he_ would have tested every theory if _he_ had been the one with the odd powers. The man was so annoying sometimes.

"You're like a walking science experiment. That's…quite a turn on."

"Gee, thanks."

"You make adjustments for the angle of the beam on the fly in your head?"

"Uh-huh."

"And the intensity of the beam—?"

"Precise muscle control."

Bruce was silent for a moment. "So that's how you—"

Clark felt his face flush. "Yeah."

He caught Bruce's eyes in the mirror. "That's why you—"

Lips quirked. "Yeah. Sleeping with you is a unique, highly addictive experience, obviously requiring endless repetition and much experimentation."

Clark was unsure whether to be gratified or appalled as he finished his toiletry and set the hand mirror on the shelf. "Fiend."

"For you."

 _Gratified,_ Clark decided at the smoldering look in Bruce's eyes. _Definitely, gratified._

The shower took…much longer than necessary, but Clark could hardly complain. There was something about Bruce and the intensity of his actions. The way he made love was overwhelming, mesmerizing. Made a man, even a _super_ man, simply want to close his eyes and drown in every sensation. Clark could understand why even the most famous starlet would seem to lose her mind when Bruce inevitably moved on, why the gossip papers were always filled with talk of the way Bruce Wayne left captured and broken hearts in his wake, never going backwards, and preceding ever onward to new conquests. Today, and for the next couple of weeks, Clark was his newest conquest.

His newest conquest.

But he wouldn't think about that now, not while Bruce had him pressed to the shower wall and was lapping at the torrent of water as it made its way down his spine, and when Bruce again angled their bodies, fitting the pieces together like a puzzle, he was dizzy with lust, but not surprised.

 _"God, Bruce, again? You're crazy—"_

 _"For you, Clark."_ A groan, tickling his ear. _"You're driving me crazy. You feel—"_

The slick sounds of skin slapping against skin. The way strong hands gripped his hips for leverage, pulling him backwards, making sure every stroke was deep and soul shattering.

 _"Bruce—"_

Bruce's groan turned into a loud shout of completion, completion that mirrored his own release, and it was so good, and so right to have Bruce resting against his back, spent, to have the cool marble tile against his face, warm water raining down on them in sheets. Nothing had ever felt better.

They took their time washing each other. Clark decided that shampooing Bruce's hair was a treat he'd try to indulge in every day while the opportunity existed. Bruce was like a large, preening cat when hands were in his hair, and Clark didn't think he'd ever get enough of seeing that eyes-closed look of bliss on his friend's face. Time was passing quickly, though, and if he wasn't careful, he'd be late to the awards ceremony—and that would never do.

The process of extracting himself from the bathroom wasn't as difficult as it could have been. Bruce still had to shave and finish up his toiletry, so Clark tied a towel around his waist and strolled into the bedroom, only to find a set of clothes already selected for him and displayed on the bed out of the wardrobe Bruce had bought him yesterday. Clark glanced over at the bathroom, shook his head and mumbled, "Control freak," under his breath.

It was then that he heard a loud noise from the main area of the suite and headed in that direction to investigate.

The elderly room attendant that they had scandalized yesterday with their antics in the hallway was slowly circling the room, staring at the water damage to the ceiling and the carpeting.

"Uh," Clark said, entering the room with a placating hand raised. "I can explain that. See—"

"Ay, dios," the maid said, backing away.

"Really, I can explain. See—"

Just then, Bruce entered the common area, with a towel around his waist and one over his head. Clark fell silent as the elderly lady's eyes seemed to bug out of her head.

 _"Ay, dios mio!"_

She turned, grabbed her cleaning cart and exited the room at a clip.

Bruce uncovered his head, looked around. "What?"

Clark sighed, cheeks flushed red. "The maid…" He waved a hand, encompassing the ruined ceiling and carpet and the two of them, undressed and obviously _together._

"Don't worry about it, Clark. Scandalizing the staff is par for the course for the idle rich. Two men and a little bit of room damage are hardly worth mentioning. Trust me. I'll make a call to the front desk."

"Okay, but—"

"Forget it, Clark. I will not curtail my activities because I'm concerned about scandalizing the hotel staff."

"But—"

"No."

Clark crossed his arms over his chest, glared.

Bruce threw up his hands in exasperation. "Who do you think changes the _sheets,_ Clark?"

Clark glanced at the bedroom door, face flushed. "Oh…right. … _Damn."_

 

49—

Super speed would shave hours off his day, Bruce speculated as he watched Clark zip around the suite, dressing faster than the eye could follow. Imagine the time he'd save getting in and out of the Batsuit alone…

Bruce blinked, and Clark was standing in front of him, dressed, combed and with those ridiculous glasses perched on his nose.

"How do I look?"

"Positively edible," Bruce said with a leer that made Clark's face color. He reached out, straightened Clark's two thousand dollar tie that looked so very fine on him, convinced that the best investment he'd made in ages was in this new wardrobe for Clark. There was nothing more impressive on a man than a perfect suit, and Clark looked stunning. Now, if he could just convince him to get rid of those ridiculous glasses that covered half his face…surely a tasteful pair of wire rimmed frames would do just as well…

Clark kissed him quickly, shyly. Bruce sighed and pulled him in for a more appropriate parting gesture, one that had them both breathing heavily.

"Um…I have to go…"

"I know."

"Well…then…I guess I'll see you…?" Big, puppy dog eyes, so blue, so hopeful.

Bruce pushed himself off of the low dresser he was leaning on, tightened the towel around his waist. "Of course."

Kicked-puppy eyes.

"Okay." Clark nodded glumly. Then he was gone.

Amused, Bruce shook his head fondly and started towards his own suite, padding across Clark's room in his bare feet, determined to find some coffee…somewhere…even if he had to make it himself. Clark was just so transparent; he wore his every desire on his sleeve for all to see. The farmboy had obviously wanted him to come to the luncheon, and it was beyond Bruce's understanding why he didn't just 1) ask him to; or 2) assume he'd be there based on the nature of their relationship. Simple, but he supposed Clark wouldn't be Clark if he weren't so…Clark-like. Bruce had to admit, he wouldn't have him any other way.

Clark should know that he wouldn't miss seeing him receive the accolades he so richly deserved, not when he was in residence and had the time to spare. He had already made arrangements. Of course, that didn't mean he was above making Clark worry to sweeten the surprise.

Then, too, there was no need to be on time to the event. It would be a good hour before anything started in earnest, and Bruce still had to find coffee, get dressed, make at least three phone calls—

His brain catalogued everything that could be accomplished in the next hour as he entered his suite and made a bee-line for his bedroom and the robe he'd left on the chair by the closet, stopping short when he noticed a shirt-sized boxed wrapped in blue paper on his bed. He approached the box cautiously, glancing around the room first to ensure he was, indeed, alone. Careful fingers prodded the box, picked it up; brought it to his ear where he shook it once to make sure nothing was amiss. When he was reasonably certain it was simply a gift of some sort, his mind immediately jumped to the next question: a gift from whom?

Bruce made short work of the paper, opened the box, and found a t-shirt with the Kryptonian symbol for the house of El, which the whole world recognized as Superman's crest, emblazoned across the front. The shirt was blue, and it was exactly his size. As he shook the shirt from the box, a small white card fell out and onto the bed. Bruce captured it, turned it over—

 _For the man who has everything..._

When did Clark have time…?

Bruce traced the large decal with his fingers, an image of Clark naked as he moved from bed to bathroom flashing in front of his eyes. He placed the t-shirt back in the box, card tucked in the collar, and placed the box on the top shelf of the closet. _Another gift from Clark who was, himself, the greatest gift._ Bruce shook his head. He might even have to wear the t-shirt, he supposed. It would be the proper thing to do.

Smiling, for no real reason— _and when was the last time he'd smiled while dressing for the day_ —he called downstairs for coffee, and began preparing himself to put on his usual show. Room service knocked as he was tucking his shirt and zipping his slacks. He made his way to the door, signed for the delivery and poured himself a cup of coffee as he sat at the desk and used the phone to check his messages.

Not surprisingly, his publicist had returned his call, assuring him that she'd do everything humanly possible to throw the paparazzi off his trail, saying that it was only the sharp ones who would figure out that the man in Lori's article was Bruce Wayne, and even then they'd assume he'd since moved on from Tahoe. A few misleading sightings in other parts of the world would ensure his privacy—for which Bruce was grateful. He didn't think Clark would appreciate the paparazzi intruding on their vacation, and he certainly didn't want to give the Man of Steel any excuse to develop yet another bout of cold feet. Oh no, now that Bruce had had a taste, he intended to have Clark in any and every way he could imagine, and if he had to keep a tight rein on _Brucie_ to ensure unfettered access to the man who was entirely too bashful for his own good, he'd bend all his resources to it. He placed a short return call to his publicist, expressing his specific desire for this issue to go away.

His only other message was from Anna, the model he had rescued yesterday from her abusive partner, reminding him of his promise to help her secure a new agent. He left a message for his business manager, only mildly annoyed at the likelihood that the man was still dodging his calls on instructions from Alfred.

Last, he put in a call to the front desk, intending to discuss a change to the housekeeping staff for their rooms for the duration of their stay and was instead informed of the arrival of a package from Alfred, containing his grandfather's watch and the diamond cuff links and tie clip that had been passed down to his father. Bruce asked that the items be delivered to his room and set the phone down, extremely pleased that he had thought to ask Alfred to send them along. He felt the need to do something for Clark, something appropriate to the occasion but not trite in the way of flowers or candy or even the diamond tennis bracelets he would bestow on his companions from time to time to excuse the many slights that were necessitated by his lifestyle. He wanted Clark to know how much their time together meant, and to remember it even after their two weeks together had passed; he wanted Clark to know how much his friendship meant, would always mean to him. He could think of nothing more fitting than to have Clark wearing these things that had belonged to the men in his family, who, despite their vast wealth, aspired to many of the qualities Clark possessed, and taught him by deed and example to value the same.

Clark was humble, and simple things made him happy. And he wanted other people to be happy. And even though he was the most powerful man on the planet, that fact wasn't even one of the top three reasons he was the best of them all.

Bruce finished his business and his coffee, shrugged into his suit jacket and exited his room, smiling.

 _TBC_


End file.
